WRAITHS 

AND 

REALITIES 


CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


WRAITHS 

AND 

REALITIES 


WRAITHS 

AND 

REALITIES 


BY 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

AUTHOR  OF  "trails  SUNWARD  •  "COLLECTED 
PLAYS  AND  POEMS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO, 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published,  March,  1018 


WITH  ADMIRATION  AND  AFFECTION 

TO 
ANNIE  FELLOWS  JOHNSTON 

WHO  HAS  EVER  FACED  LIFE  WITH  COURAGE 

AND   ART    WITH  GENEROUS 

APPRECIATION 


Viiilllii 


PREFACE 

The  voicing  of  a  preference  for  classicism,  realism 
or  romanticism  is  nearly  always  the  conscious  or  un- 
conscious preoccupation  of  critics  of  poetry.  The 
classicist,  wanting  perfect  beauty,  stresses  restraint 
—  and  is  ever  accused  of  praising  what  is  academic 
or  lacking  in  freedom  or  truth  to  life.  The  realist, 
stressing  truth  to  life  and  minimizing  restraint  as  to 
method  or  material,  finds  himself  blamed  for  mistak- 
ing the  mere  raw  material  of  life  for  ultimate  art,  and 
so  for  praising  the  sordid  or  commonplace.  The 
romanticist,  holding  neither  to  restraint  and  mere 
beauty,  nor  to  unrestraint  and  actuality,  is  prodded 
by  both  sides.  By  the  classicist  for  lenience  toward 
unrestraint;  and  by  the  realist  who  wishes  the  ma- 
terial of  poetry  to  be  taken  only  from  the  "  every 
day  life  around  us,"  and  who  therefore  condemns  all 
other  material,  whether  of  the  past,  the  foreign  pres- 
vii 


viii  PREFACE 

ent,  or  the  future,  as  remote,  extraneous  or  "  exotic." 
Yet  the  romanticist  would  seem  to  have  the  better 
theoretical  viewpoint.  For  in  not  opposing  beauty 
to  truth,  but  in  holding  that  "  beauty  is  truth,  truth 
beauty,"  and  that  the  two  are  always  varyingly 
blended  in  any  genuine  poetry  whatever  its  subject 
or  treatment,  he  has  a  creed  that  is  more  compre- 
hensive, and  that  if  accepted  by  the  poet  will  make 
for  larger  productivity.  He  does  not  insist  that  the 
poet  must  ever  keep  an  eye  on  what  is  traditionally 
poetic,  like  the  classicist,  or  on  what  is  poetic  in  the 
immediate  present,  like  the  realist,  but  would  let 
poetry  come  freely  from  any  source  of  genuine  won- 
der, beauty  or  truth.  It  is  therefore  not  the  roman- 
ticist poet,  but  the  realist  and  classicist  as  such  who 
drop  out  of  the  poetic  race  oversoon,  and  who  have 
given  to  the  world  the  smaller  amount  of  permanent 
poetry.  And  it  is  often  only  when  the  realist  turns 
romantic  as  did  Whitman  in  "  Out  of  the  Cradle 
Endlessly  Rocking,"  "  Passage  to  India,"  and  other 
poems,  that  he  becomes  most  indubitably  poetic. 


PREFACE  IX 

These  opinions  are  not  expressed  here  without 
relation  to  the  present  volume  and  to  the  present 
position  of  American  poetic  criticism.  Realism, 
and  particularly  the  rhythmless,  free-verse  realism 
which  has  recently  been  given  vogue  in  such  verse 
magazinelets  and  anthologies  as  those  of  Miss 
Harriet  Monroe  and  Mr.  W.  S.  Braithwaite,  seems 
to  be  already  near  to  exhaustion.  These  critics  in 
exploiting  it  as  true  poetry  have  quickly  condemned 
their  pages.  And  now  the  question  is  being  asked, 
Were  they  sincere?  And  since  they  have  also  dis- 
criminated against  or  omitted  certain  distinguished 
poets  who  were  doing  free,  independent  and  beau- 
tiful work,  are  they  to  be  critically  trusted?  If 
not,  to  whom  can  one  who  loves  genuine  poetry  of 
any  kind  go  for  critical  guidance  through  the 
jungle  of  contemporary  American  poetry? 

I  sought  to  answer  the  last  question  some  years 
ago  in  an  article  to  the  North  American  Review. 
There  I  said  that  America,  still  literarily  democratic, 
had  no  authoritative  poetry  criticism,  but  that  by  far 


X  PREFACE 

the  most  competent  and  trustworthy  it  possessed  came 
from  the  consensus  of  opinion  of  the  better  newspaper 
reviewers.  That  answer,  I  fear,  must  still  stand. 
For  the  petty  poetr}'  magazines,  such  as  those  men- 
tioned, have  been  far  too  busy  trying  to  discover  new 
"  movements,"  or  in  exploiting  fads  and  favorites, 
to  remember  large-mindedly  what  poetry  is.  And 
of  our  other  critical  periodicals  too  many,  at  the  other 
extreme,  have  been  academically  addicted  to  the  be- 
lief that  America  is  congenitally  unpoetic,  and  that 
the  highest  praise  any  American  may  hope  for  is  com- 
parison with  a  frequently  inferior,  if  more  widely 
known,  foreign  contemporary.  To  a  real  criticism, 
therefore,  the  last  two  decades  of  our  poetry  are  still 
richly  open;  though  it  is  to  the  credit  of  Miss  Amy 
Lowell  that  she  has  recently  sought  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  the  realist  side  of  this  period;  and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  some  volume  is  forthcoming  unrestricted 
in  creed,  and  free  of  the  small  spites,  suppressions 
and  partizanships  with  which  Miss  Monroe,  the 
*'  endowed,"  and  Mr.  Braithwaite,  the  unendowed, 
have  so  successfully  impugned  each  other. 


PREFACE  xl 

The  volume  offered  here  has  been  written,  as  have 
its  predecessors,  with  the  belief  expressed  above  that 
the  poet's  attitude  toward  life  should  always  be  ro- 
mantic however  much  he  may  lean  toward  realism 
or  classicism  in  particular  poems:  for  the  truly  ro- 
mantic is  ever  the  imaginative.  Narrative  poems 
have  been  chosen  to  begin  and  end  it  —  poems  having 
the  region  of  the  Ohio  for  a  background,  and  one 
with  the  River  itself  as  in  some  sense  a  protagonist. 
This  arrangement  has  been  made  partly  for  variety's 
sake,  and  partly  because  it  gives  me  opportunity  to 
express  the  belief  that  writers  of  narrative  verse  are 
too  unfamiliar  with  the  technique  of  the  modem  short 
story.  Their  disposition  to  relate  and  describe  a 
situation  disproportionately,  rather  than  to  reveal  it 
directly  to  a  climjax ;  and  their  neglect  to  hold  strictly 
to  a  definite  point  of  view;  leaves  too  often  such  an 
impression  of  amateurishness  as  our  better  short 
story  writers  would  not  be  guilty  of.  Perhaps  no 
narrative  poet  can  do  better  than  to  ask  himself  if 
this  be  true.  Cale  Young  Rice. 

Louisville,  January,  1918. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Old  Garih's  Jess 3 

Chanson  of  the  Bells  of  Osexey 39 

The  Avengers 42 

Processional 50 

Revolution 52 

To  A  Firefly  by  the  Sea 56 

A  Wife  — TO  a  Husband  Disgraced 58 

Questions 61 

Transmutation 63 

Waste 65 

The  Heart  of  God  is  My  Demesne 67 

Songs  to  A.  H.  R 70 

King  Amenophis 73 

Recruit  961          75 

The  Song  of  the  Storm-Spirits 76 

The  Wreck-Buoy 78 

Deliverance? 80 

The  Imperial  City 83 

The   Price 85 

The  Unborn 87 

Brother  Beasts 94 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Woman  Wronged 97 

To  A  Solitary  Sea-Gull 99 

Ineffable  Things 100 

Katenka's  Lover 102 

A  Mother 104 

Give  Over,  O  Sea! 105 

The  Nun 108 

A  Rhapsodist's  Song 110 

Insulation 113 

Iseult  of  Ireland 114 

To 116 

The  Hills  I  Have  Never  Reached 118 

The   Half-Breed 119 

The  Ride 122 

The  Faring  of  Fa-Hien 123 

A  Lover,  Deceived 127 

At  the  Dance 130 

Her  God 132 

Danse  Macabre 133 

A  Norse  Song 135 

Moon-Flight       136 

The  Resurrection  According  to  Thomas  .     .     .     .137 

Rose   and   Lotus 139 

Atavism '.  140 

Strangeness 142 

Forecast 143 

The  Closed  Gates 144 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An  Austrian  Prisoner 146 

Easter    Snow 148 

A   WooD-Moi^rENT 150 

Poets  There  Are 152 

In  Praise  of  Robert  Browning 153 

Over   the   Sands 154 

evanescencies 156 

My  Island 157 

Through  Hue  and  Cry 158 

A  Parable 159 

Sense-Sweetness 161 

Mother  and  Son 163 

Ariel  to  the  Aging  Shakespeare 164 

Pagan 165 

Providence 166 

Wraithwood  Hill 168 


WRAITHS  AND  REALITIES 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

I 

Just  where  the  Ohio  bends  away 
From  Coal-mine  Hill  and  doubles  back 
Between  low  corn-lands  that  display 
Their  tasseled  ranks  in  wide  array, 
The  city  lies  in  a  moon-curve, 
A  crescent  smoky  at  one  tip, 
But  at  the  other's  sunny  swerve, 
From  mill  and  factory  afar, 
Green-sheltered  homes  and  churches  are. 


The  river  frontage  has  a  strip 
Of  park-way  here,  a  narrow  space 
Of  grass  and  trees  where  one  may  lip 
The  cool  west  breeze  and  watch  suns  dip. 
3 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 
Across,  ihe  clam  lies;  elbowed  out 
Into  midstream,  to  turn  its  flow 
To  wharf  and  warehouse  built  about 
The  levee's  cobbled  slope  —  where  tug 
And  busy  steamer  chum  and  chug. 

And  here  old  Garth  was  master  —  coarse 
In  fibre  as  split  hickory; 
Shouting  command  with  curse  as  hoarse 
As  the  tug-hoots,  and  with  a  force 
That  beat  into  the  ears  and  brain 
Of  clerk  and  deckhand,  who  in  fear 
Hurried  about  with  doubled  strain 
To  check  invoice,  or  lift  the  weight 
On  streaming  backs  of  crowded  freight. 

Jess  was  among  them  —  Jess,  his  son, 
A  lad  of  twenty  —  clear  of  eye 
And  clean  of  limb,  just  such  a  one 
As  made  you  ask  of  earth  and  sun. 
Yes,  of  all  baffling  Nature,  how  ? 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  5 

How  have  you  charmed  from  a  dull  stock 
Of  narrow  tyranny  this  brow  ? 
Can  you  at  will  say  to  the  womb 
Heredity  is  not  man*s  doom? 

Answer  is  wanting.     But  despite 
A  parentage  unbeautiful 
The  lad  had  grown  —  keen  to  delight 
In  beauty  and  in  love,  its  light. 
Wherefore  old  Garth,  dimly  suspecting, 
And  hating  what  was  not  himself, 
Or  like  himself,  did  no  neglecting, 
But  tore  the  boy  at  a  young  age 
Away  to  toil's  hard  tutelage. 

Away  from  school  —  from  the  new  dreams 
That  books  had  kindled  in  his  eyes; 
Away  from  friends,  and  the  first  gleams 
Of  freedom  with  which  friendship  streams. 
"  Work  —  if  you're  son  of  mine  —  not  spend," 
To  Jess,  fifteen,  the  churl  had  said. 


6  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

And  there  had  been  a  wordless  end; 
Upon  the  wharf  Jess  took  his  place, 
Renouncing  all  things  —  save  one  face. 

The  face  of  Ellen  Arden  —  young 
With  all  the  Aprils  of  the  world, 
And  sweet  with  all  the  beauty  wrung 
From  flower-bells  by  the  wind  swung. 
A  face  that  Jess  had  first  beheld 
Coming  toward  him  thro  new  throes 
Of  manhood  that  within  him  swelled : 
And  that  was  instantly  the  goal 
Of  his  imagination's  soul. 

For  they  had  met  immortally. 

From  the  first  moment  when  she  saw 

Old  Garth  with  hot  authority 

Bum  the  boy's  cheeks,  her  heart  sprang  free: 

Free  of  the  difference  of  wealth 

And  rooted  rank  and  social  sheen  — 

For  what  are  these  to  young  love's  health  ?  - 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  7 

"  Your  father's  cruel,"  Ellen  had  said. 
For  him  it  struck  his  father  dead. 

For  tho  upon  the  wharf  next  day 
To  toil  with  negroes  he  was  put, 
To  lifting  cotton,  wheat  and  hay 
And  cane  cut  from  the  brakes  of  May; 
And  tho  he  heard  his  father's  voice 
Swing  like  a  whip  across  his  back, 
It  had  no  smallest  power  to  rout 
The  bliss  of  knowing  that  her  face 
Was  in  a  world  where  he  had  place. 

Nor  for  years  then  was  there  a  change. 
He  lent  his  youth,  unpaid,  to  toil, 
Nor  scarcely  thought  of  it  as  strange. 
Or  dreamed  that  he  might  farther  range. 
For  Ellen  was  the  Spring's  glad  green. 
And  Ellen  was  the  Autumn's  gold, 
She  was  all  things  of  joy  between. 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Till  once  he  saw  her  with  another, 
Then  a  fear  took  him,  with  its  smother. 

What  if  he  lost  her  ?  —  she  must  wed : 
And  could  she  wed  a  work-f or-nothing  ? 
It  raised  old  Garth  up  from  the  dead, 
"  He  owes  me  more,"  said  Jess,  "  than  bread.' 
It  raised  old  Garth  out  of  the  shroud 
That  Ellen  —  who  had  called  him  cruel  — 
Had  made  the  boy's  indifference  proud 
To  wrap  him  in.     "  He's  mean,"  said  Jess, 
"  But  he  shan't  steal  my  happiness." 

Down  to  the  wharf  that  night  he  went 
And  hung  lonely  over  the  water, 
Brooding  until  the  eve-star  spent 
Her  fire  within  the  West's  wide  tent. 
No  craft  was  on  the  current;  all 
Were  tied  along  the  shore  for  sleep. 
Only  the  ripple's  idle  fall, 
Or  the  hull-rats,  broke  thro  his  sense 
Of  injury  and  impotence. 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 
For  the  old  man  was  strong,  he  knew, 
And  a  son's  rights  were  as  a  slave's. 
"  But  I  will  have  them  —  if  she's  true  — 
More  wages  now  —  and  those  past  due." 
He  wandered  home,  rehearsing  words. 
Those  ageless  actors,  in  his  heart, 
Tho  all  his  spirit  was  in  curds 
Of  bitterness  before  the  fight 
To  win  what  was  his  human  right. 

He  rose :  old  Garth  at  breakfast  looked 

Him  over  with  a  scurrile  eye. 

And  said,  "  Curse  you,  what's  got  you  hooked? 

You're  late  and  I've  much  business  booked." 

Jess  flung  no  answer :  he  would  wait 

And  in  the  wharf  office  have  it  out. 

"  Had  I  a  mother  to  abate 

The  loneliness  I  feel,"  he  said. 

His  mother  at  his  birth  was  dead. 

He  took  his  hat  —  looked  in  the  glass: 
Would  he  see  Ellen?     Chance  so  fell. 


10  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

His  heart  beat  with  a  riot  mass 
Of  struggling  raptures.  .  .  .  Would  she  pass, 
Would  she?  .  .  .  before  he  reached  the  comer? 
He  hurried,  and  she  slowed  her  step, 
A  kindness  that  seemed  to  adorn  her 
In  the  boy's  eye  with  deity : 
He  worshipped  —  then  prayed  out  his  plea: 

"  Oh,  Ellen,  I  was  thinking  of  you," 
And  swift  he  saw  her  face  turn  roses. 
"  Ellen,  may  I  not  dare  to  love  you? 
I  do,  more  than  the  skies  above  you. 
I  do,  I  do,  tho  you  are  rich 
And  beautiful  and  all  that's  bright. 
And  I  could  climb  out  of  this  ditch 
Of  drudgery  and  win  the  world 
If  you  within  my  heart  were  furled. 

"  My  father's  a  mere  riverman, 
Who  gives  me  bread  alone  for  wages, 
But  that  should  never  be  a  ban, 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  11 

Love  a  far  wider  gulf  can  span. 
I  have  no  money,  save  the  store 
He*s  stinted  from  me  these  three  years, 
But  he  shall  pay  me  now  the  more  — 
For  I  am  worth  it  —  or  I'll  take 
What's  mine,  and  wharf-dust  from  me  shake." 

She  listened  —  and  her  heart  went  white 
Then  red  again  with  the  glad  blood. 
She  loved  him,  yet  it  was  not  quite 
The  love  that  conquers  all  despite. 
And  then  her  people  —  and  their  wrath; 
For  they  would  cast  her  off,  she  knew, 
Since  there  were  riches  in  her  path: 
The  other  he  had  seen  her  with 
Was  one  whose  wealth  transcended  myth. 

"  O  Jess,  I  am  afraid,"  she  cried, 
"  I  think  I  love  you,  but  my  life 
In  pride  and  wealth  and  place  is  dyed. 
And  with  you  I  should  be  untried. 


12  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

If  you  had  money  —  and  no  father 
To  fetter  us  in  the  world's  eye! 
Wait,  Jess,  a  little  while,  I'd  rather." 
Then  with  a  flutter  she  was  gone  — 
But  not  the  dawn  with  her  —  the  dawn ! 

For  love  had  spoken.     So  desire 
For  wealth  and  freedom  broke  out  in 
The  boy  —  as  might  a  forest  fire 
That  sweeps  all  down  and  will  not  tire. 
He  hastened  to  the  ringing  wharf. 
The  old  man  waited  at  the  door. 
"  By  Hell,  do  you  expect  to  dwarf 
My  business  with  delays  like  this  ?  " 
He  swore,  and  struck  Jess  with  a  hiss. 

Jess  quivered,  then  said,  "  Come  with  me 

Into  the  office:  you  must  hear. 

I've  wormed  it  to  your  tyranny 

Enough:  now  something  else  must  be." 

"  What?  "  said  the  old  man.     "  Come?  —  I  will, 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  13 

And  smash  your  liver  into  sense. 
You'll  learn  this  is  no  kid-glove  mill. 
I  know  well  how  your  lily  throat 
Is  strangled  in  a  petticoat." 

They  went:  the  door  was  closed  behind. 

Without,  the  deckhands  grinned  and  waited. 

"  Ole  boss,  he  shore  eats  to  the  rind," 

One  said.     "  Young  boss  don't  know  his  kind." 

Within,  the  boy,  trembling  as  sons 

Will  tremble  before  fathers  only, 

Strained  for  the  breath  of  self-control 

To  say  with  dignity  his  soul. 

"  I've  worked  three  years  and  you  have  had 
Less  words  from  me  than  I've  had  wages. 
I've  toiled:  for  what?     To  see  you  pad 
Your  purse  —  and  add  to  it  and  add. 
And  I  cared  not:  the  days  were  good, 
Rich  with  the  golden  hair  of  Ellen. 
But  now  I  want  a  livelihood  — 


14  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Pay  for  the  past  —  and  for  the  wife 
I  hope  to  win  a  decent  life. 

"  I  know  the  trade:  give  me  but  these 

And  I  will  double  soon  your  gains. 

But  give  them  not  —  and  I  will  squeeze 

What's  mine."  .  .  .  Old  Garth  smote  on  his  knees. 

"  What's  yours !  "  he  cried.     "  Know  this,  you  whelp, 

Who  lift  this  whine  that  I  am  thieving. 

I'll  give  you  what  will  be  more  help." 

He  struck  Jess  and  the  boy  went  down  .  .  . 

In  long  unconsciousness  to  drown. 

II 

When  he  came  to  it  was  just  noon. 

He  lay  upon  the  floor  and  stared. 

He  heard  mill-whistles  thro  his  swoon 

Of  pain  —  like  drills  into  him  hewn. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  asked  he.     Then  came  back 

The  blow  —  and  still  an  unseen  fist 

Like  a  great  hammer,  whack  on  whack, 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  15 

Seemed  beating  with  a  demon  din 
Upon  his  wounded  brain  —  far  in. 

It  maddened  him ;  till  he  arose 

And  saw  the  river  slipping  by. 

He  watched  it  as  one  does  who  knows 

Its  beauty  no  more  for  him  flows. 

He  was  ten  million  years  from  it : 

The  artery  of  time  was  severed. 

In  vain  his  senses  strove  to  knit 

The  world  that  was  on  yesterday 

With  this  earth-corpse  that  round  him  lay. 

He  bathed  his  face  —  and  then  went  out, 

Past  sweaty,  dinner-pailed  deckhands. 

To  strive  and  call  his  thoughts  from  rout, 

With  his  will's  bitter  broken  knout. 

He  leant  against  a  cotton-bale 

And  saw  the  muddy  current  pass.  .  .  . 

And  when  it  bore  a  body,  stale, 


16  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Swollen  and  foul  with  drowning,  by, 
No  difference  came  into  his  eye. 

Save  that  he  wished  he  too  were  drowned  - 
Or  the  old  man  —  yes,  the  old  man. 
And  what  had  been  so  hard  —  to  round 
His  thoughts  up  —  hate  now  easy  found. 
It  herded  all  wild  animal 
Desires  within  his  bleeding  heart ; 
Hereditary  fiercenesses 
He  did  not  know  were  in  his  blood 
Stamped  the  clear  stream  of  it  to  mud. 

"  I'll  have  my  money  —  and  I'll  go," 

He  said,  "  I'll  get  it  if  I  die!  " 

He  left  the  wharf,  stem  with  the  woe 

Of  one  Content  no  more  will  know. 

He  stemmed  the  heavy  cobblestones; 

The  shanty-boats  sent  out  a  whiff 

Of  fish  frying  and  com  bread  pones. 

But  the  sole  hunger  that  he  felt 

Was  —  for  the  stroke  that  must  be  dealt. 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  17 

He  took  a  path  thro  tall  ragweed 
That  grew  along  the  river  edge, 
Where  as  a  child  he  used  to  lead 
In  games  and  many  a  danger  deed. 
The  sun-cracked  clay  beneath  his  feet 
Gaped  like  his  broken  world  within, 
On  which  hot  shame  still  seemed  to  beat. 
Even  the  face  of  Ellen  now 
Was  seared  from  sight  within  his  brow. 

Beyond  the  Waterworks  he  stopped, 
Beside  the  sycamored  Bayou. 
A  dove  in  branches  leafy-topped 
Her  low  love-note  upon  him  dropped. 
Its  softness  only  hardened  more 
His  hate  and  hard  determination. 
How  could  he  get  what  was  his  due  — 
And  then  get  Ellen  —  get  her  too? 

He  thought  until  dark  drew  the  sun 
Into  its  net  —  the  day  was  caught, 


18  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

And  God  the  Fisher,  having  done, 
Loosed  minnow  stars  to  swim  and  run. 
But  Jess,  too,  Jess  had  caught  his  fish 
A  way  to  get  his  rights.     He  rose. 
"  She  will  not  have  another  wish, 
When  I  have  told  her  I  must  leave, 
Than  to  come  with  me,  to  believe." 


The  blue  arc-lights  were  sifting  out 
Their  carbon-sparks  and  settling  down 
To  the  night's  duty,  as  a  doubt 
How  to  see  Ellen  brought  Jess  rout. 
He  slowed  his  step  from  street  to  street, 
Scanning  the  face  of  each  home-comer. 
And  hoping  one  that  he  might  meet 
Would  be  hers.    And  it  was.    She  came  — 
Twilit  —  but  in  her  eyes  love's  flame. 

"  Jess!  "  —  "  Ellen!  "  —  "  Jess!  "  —  "  Oh,  is  it 

you?" 
He  felt  in  his  her  little  hand, 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  19 

As  if  around  his  heart  it  grew; 
Yet  his  words  shook  her,  like  death-dew. 
"What  is  it,  Jess?  "     With  low  alarm 
And  love  her  young  girl's  voice  trembled. 
"  I  have  been  done  a  dreadful  harm. 
And  I  must  go  away  —  or  kill. 
Go  with  me,  Ellen!    say  you  will." 

"  Oh  Jess,  what  is  it?  "  —  "  Do  not  ask. 
To  tell  you  now  would  strangle  me. 
And  I  have  still  a  bitter  task 
To  do,  and  there's  no  time  to  bask. 
But  you  shall  hear,  upon  the  train, 
All,  when  forever  we  are  wedded. 
For  that  alone  will  keep  me  sane. 
Oh  Ellen,  if  you  do  not  come, 
Then  life  has  added  my  last  sum." 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  "  I  will,  dear  Jess, 
Forgetting  and  forsaking  all. 
At  your  great  misery  I  but  guess : 


20  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

God  let  me  drain  it  of  distress. 
For  now  I  know  father  and  mother 
And  home  and  swathing  luxury 
Can  never  from  this  moment  smother 
My  heart  from  saying  with  each  beat 
That  you  alone  can  make  life  sweet." 

He  seized  her  to  him,  then  said,  "  Go: 
At  twelve  be  ready :    I  will  come." 
Then  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow 
Of  destiny  he  sped  —  to  woe. 
He  reached  the  levee;  saw  the  moon 
Like  the  thin  rind  of  a  new  world; 
A  silvery  promise  of  the  boon 
Of  finding  in  some  new-won  place 
Relief  from  his  hot  harsh  disgrace. 

But  first  the  money  must  be  netted, 
"  All  that  is  mine  " —  he  said,  and  slipped 
Down  to  the  wharf  that  waves  wetted 
A  little,  by  the  sharp  wind  fretted. 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  21 

The  door  gave  to  his  key :  the  smell 
Of  dark-stowed  freight  struck  on  his  sense. 
But  in  the  darkness  he  could  tell 
His  way;  and  soon  the  office  latch 
Clicked  —  and  he  scraped  sight  from  a  match. 

The  safe  stood  in  the  corner  —  by 
The  desk  old  Garth  was  wont  to  use. 
The  name  upon  it  met  his  eye 
As  might  a  ghost  he  must  defy. 
But  he  remembered  the  foul  blow 
Which  had  been  flung  against  his  brow 
A  few  hours  since,  and  saw  the  flow 
Of  dry  blood  on  the  floor.    Dark  hate 
Rose  in  him  like  a  flood  of  fate. 

Quickly  he  lit  a  candle  —  knelt  .... 
But  what  was  that?  ....  Nothing  ....  He  lis- 
tened. 
The  moon  fleeced  with  a  silvery  pelt 

The  river's  flow  —  or  seemed  to  melt, 


22  OLD  GARTH'S  JES^S 

Then  came  again,  so  hauntingly 
That  life  was  much  too  beautiful 
For  money  thus  to  bow  his  knee  .... 
But  ere  he  knew  the  tumblers  fell : 
The  combination  answered  well. 

Then  his  hands  found  the  money  —  bill 

On  bill  he  thrust  into  his  coat ; 

His  wages  —  yet  upon  his  will 

They  weighed  with  fear  he  could  not  kill. 

A  sound  once  more  —  he  started  ....  Was 

It  but  the  scuttle  of  a  rat? 

A  breathing  of  God's  broken  laws  ? 

He  knew  not  as  he  took  one  more  — 

Then  saw  old  Garth  stand  in  the  door. 


in 

He  did  not  rise,  till  he  had  led 
The  safe-lock  into  place,  slowly. 
Then  something  told  him  he  was  dead 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  23 

He  or  that  other  —  whose  blear  head, 
With  blood-shot  raging  shaggy  eyes 
Now  held  him  in  a  brutal  grip: 
For  death  before  itself  oft  flies 
In  premonition  ....  When  he  rose 
He  felt  his  hand  on  something  close. 

It  was  a  leaden  paper-weight 

Upon  the  desk. —  Old  Garth  now  rasped, 

"  A  thief,  by  God:  and  I  this  late 

In  knowing  it."  The  words  were  fate. 

"  If  you  say  that  I'll  kill  you."     Jess 

Was  strangled,  with  the  lying  truth. 

"  I  take  what's  mine  —  no  more,  no  less."  — 

"  You'll  take  the  road  to  jail,  you  bastard, 

And  learn  how  such  as  you  are  mastered." 

The  words  went  thro  the  boy.    He  thought, 
"  Am  I  a  bastard?  "...  Then,  "  I'm  lost! 
He'll  see  me  sentenced !    I  am  caught. 
O  mother!  "  .  .  .  .  then  his  senses  fought. 


24  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

The  moon  died  as  a  moment  passed, 
The  river  rippled,  a  black  blot. 
Old  Garth  within  the  door  was  massed. 
"  Stand  back,"  cried  Jess,  "  and  let  me  go." 
He  saw  the  shape  move  toward  him  slow. 

And  then  he  felt  within  his  hand 

The  weight  —  how  cold  it  was  —  like  death. 

But  terror  gave  him  the  command : 

He  seized  and  flung  it  as  a  brand. 

For  all  things  suddenly  were  flame 

Before  his  eyes  ....  Above  the  heart 

Of  the  old  man  with  awful  aim 

It  struck  —  and  down  his  victim  sank  .  .  .  . 

A  gust  of  wind  the  candle  drank. 

Yet  in  the  horror  of  the  dark 
Jess  stood  there,  waiting  for  a  blow, 
A  curse  —  death  even,  cold  and  stark, 
To  make  of  him  a  sudden  mark. 
It  fell  not,  but  the  creeping  night 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  25 

Became  an  infinite  accusal 
That  pressed  upon  him  —  till  in  fright 
He  stumbled  toward  the  door  —  and  felt 
A  lump  there  at  his  feet.    He  knelt. 

There  was  no  beat  of  heart  or  pulse. 

Clairvoyantly  Jess  saw  the  face, 

As  one  sees  under  waters  dulse. 

Why  did  it  not  rage  out  insults  ? 

"  He  can't  be  dead,"  Jess  cried,  "  he  can't!  " 

But  who  intentless  ever  slew 

And  did  not  that  same  anguish  pant? 

We  kill  and  then  would  die  to  see 

Breath  where  breath  never  more  can  be. 

A  moan  wrung  Jess.    He  shook  and  rose, 
Sought  for  the  candle,  gave  it  flame. 
The  room  came  out  of  the  night's  throes  — 
But  as  a  witness,  now,  that  knows. 
What  should  he  do?    He  saw  gleaming 
Along  the  floor  the  deadly  weight. 


26  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

And  then  ....  "Heart  failure!  "  came  streaming 

Into  his  thought.    "  I'll  leave  him  so, 

And  none  ....  no  one  can  ever  know." 

But  first  the  weight.     It  must  be  placed 

Back  on  the  desk;  and  yet  he  shrank: 

It  was  as  if  his  fingers  faced 

Lifting  the  dead  man's  heart  ....  Yet  haste, 

Hasten  he  must.    So  from  the  floor 

He  seized  it  up.    Then  with  his  hand 

Crushed  out  the  light,  and  to  the  door, 

Across  the  unabusive  dead. 

Hurried  with  trembling  haunted  tread. 

The  river  dreamed,  the  stars  shone. 
The  cool  wind  with  the  night  trysted. 
But  in  the  world  Jess  was  alone 
As  all  who  kill  are :    God  seemed  stone. 
Or  was  there  any  God  in  Heaven? 
The  gulfs  above  him  and  within 
Seemed  destitute  of  kindly  Leaven : 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  27 

Only  for  misery  and  doom 
Did  the  wide  universe  have  room. 

He  would  have  run,  he  would  have  fled, 
But  knew  he  must  not.    He  must  go 
Quietly  home  and  to  his  bed, 
And  there  lie  in  the  arms  of  Dread. 
But  word  to  Ellen  must  be  sent 
That  he  was  ill.    For  well  he  knew 
That  fever  with  its  parching  breath 
Would  dry  in  him  for  long  the  dew 
Of  health  —  nor  scarcely  give  him  time 
To  shape  concealment  of  his  crime. 

IV 

The  sun  rose  with  a  heat  that  meant 
A  thirsty  day  for  straining  labor. 
Yet,  ere  the  hour,  and  singing  went 
The  deckhands,  children  of  Content. 
They  waited  at  the  blind  wharf-door. 
"  Ole  boss  late?    No-sir-ree!     Ole  sun 


28  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Hisself's  got  up  too  early,  shore." 
They  said,  and  watched  the  river  foam. 
The  foreman,  sought  old  Garth  at  home. 

He  found  Jess  —  in  delirium, 

The  servant  and  a  doctor  near. 

"  Old  Garth  ?  "    He  was  not  in  his  room, 

The  bed  untouched:  that  was  the  sum. 

Back  to  the  wharf  the  foreman  hurried. 

Scattered  the  idlers,  tried  the  door. 

It  gave  .  .  .  past  him  the  cat  scurried. 

Mewing  with  fear.  .  .  .  The  wharfman  lay 

As  tranquil  as  all  dead  men  may. 

The  inquest  came;  — the  long  slow  tread 
Of  hearse  and  carriage  to  the  place 
Where  dead  men  do  not  rail,  being  dead; 
Where  for  the  worst  a  prayer  is  read. 
"  His  violence  was  apoplectic 
And  the  heart  failed,"  the  verdict  ran. 
Jess,  fevered,  incoherent,  hectic, 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  29 

Picked  flowers  in  delirium 
For  Ellen  —  adding  sum  to  sum. 

And  Ellen,  thro  forbiddance  breaking, 
Trampling  entreaty  and  command, 
Into  her  hands  her  young  life  taking, 
Sat  by  him  in  his  sleep  or  waking. 
"  Yes,  Jess,"  she  said  to  the  poor  brain 
That  blindly,  blindly  added  blossoms, — 
Each  to  her  heart  a  joy,  a  pain, — 
"  Yes,  dear,  but  sleep  a  little  now  — 
For  it  is  Ellen  wipes  your  brow." 

Oh,  would  he  live?    For  weeks  the  wing 
Of  death  hung  shadowy  at  his  heart, 
Ready  with  silent  winnowing 
To  beat  —  and  leave  there  but  a  thing. 
But  Ellen  held  it  back  with  hope 
And  tender  courage  and  desire : 
Not  while  one  feeble  ray  could  grope 
Thro  the  dark  pinion  would  she  yield: 
So  nurse  and  doctor,  too,  were  steeled. 


30  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Then  one  day,  when  an  Autumn  leaf, 
The  first,  fell  drifting  to  the  street, 
And  Ellen  like  a  shade  of  grief 
Stood  at  the  window,  came  relief. 
Jess  woke.    The  window  glimmered  there, 
Ellen  within  it  like  a  dream 
That  soon  would  vanish  —  leaving  air 
Tortured  again,  he  knew,  with  all 
The  fever  things  that  creep  and  crawl. 

And  so  he  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

But  waited,  while  the  sunset  flared 

And  lit  her  with  a  golden  streak 

Of  glory  —  then  he  murmured,  weak, 

"  Ellen !  "  .  .  .  She  turned  and  saw  his  eyes 

Clear  of  the  turbid  wandering. 

Then  thro  her  tears  and  tearful  cries 

Of  swift  thanksgiving,  on  her  knees 

Beside  him  poured  her  ecstasies. 

"  You  have  come  back !    you  have  come  back ! 
Oh  Jess,  I  thought  you  never  would!  " 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  31 

Then  she  remembered  his  long  lack 
Of  rest  —  and  calmed  her  blissful  rack. 
He  was  content  to  gaze  at  her 
And  wonder  if  he  were  not  dead 
And  she  a  radiant  minister. 
He  slept  the  night  thro  and  at  dawn 
Awoke  —  and  still  she  was  not  gone. 

"  But  what  has  happened?  "  was  his  thought 
Always,  in  the  blest  hours  that  followed. 
He  had  been  ill,  he  knew,  distraught: 
But  that  forgetfulness  had  caught 
Away,  to  some  dark  oubliette 
Of  memory,  his  piteous  crime, 
He  did  not  know :  nor  question  yet 
Wherefore  his  father  did  not  come: 
About  his  father  all  was  numb. 

But  he  must  ask.    And  so  one  day: 
"  Where  is  my  father?  "    And  his  eyes 
Wandered  to  Ellen's  —  where  they  lay 


32  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

In  a  deep  trust,  as  but  love's  may. 
Ready  was  she  with  answer,  "  Jess, 
We  may  be  married  now  —  there's  none 
Who  will  forbid  it,  no,  not  one. 
Your  father,  dear, —  your  father's  dead, 
And  mine  of  shame  must  let  us  wed." 

His  father  dead  ?    Why  did  the  thought 
Seem  to  him  like  a  thing  exhumed 
From  his  own  brain  —  not  gently  caught 
From  Ellen's  lips  with  low  love  fraught? 
And  why  could  he  not  tear  away 
The  shroud  of  strange  forgetfulness 
That  darkly  round  the  hours  lay 
Ere  he  was  ill  ?  —  "  I'm  glad,"  he  said, 
"  I'm  glad,  Ellen,  that  we  may  wed." 

She  laughed  at  his  weak  joylessness. 
"  But  hear,"  she  cried,  "  how  rapturous 
My  lover  is !     I  must  be  less 
Securely  his  —  or  sip  distress! 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  33 

He'll  wed  me  out  of  gratitude 
To  pay  my  nursing  of  him  next!  " 
But  when  she  saw  a  tragic  brood 
Of  troubles  haunting  still  his  eye, 
She  said,  "  Nay,  sleep,  dear  "  —  and  sat  by. 

His  strength  grew  —  and  one  day  he  rose. 
Then  came  the  wedding,  quietly. 
But  still  within  him  there  were  foes 
He  hid  from  Ellen  .  .  .  shadowy  woes. 
"  Do  not!    do  not!  "  they  seemed  to  moan, 
Tho  why  they  should  forbid  his  bliss 
He  could  not  tell.    Yet  thrice  alone 
He  seemed  when  Ellen  was  his  wife  — 
And  there  before  him  lay  all  life. 

About  the  honeymoon  they  hung. 
Those  shadowy  woes ;  and  anxiously 
Ellen  had  watched  him  —  sometimes  stung 
With  fear  lest  love  was  from  him  wrung. 
"  All  will  be  well,"  he  said,  "  let  us 


34  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Go  home,  and  work  will  make  me  whole." 
Then  he  would  kiss  her  tremulous, 
And  think,  "  What  is  it  calling  me  ? 
Will  nothing  ease  this  mystery?  " 

They  went  —  and  their  first  night  was  glad 

With  hope  —  for  she  was  in  his  house : 

His  now,  with  all  old  Garth  had  had : 

His  .  .  .  yet  a  thought  came  to  him,  mad. 

He  longed  to  flee  it  secretly, 

To  let  all  go  —  rise  from  her  side 

And  run  as  from  some  destiny. 

But  could  he  from  a  horror  run 

That  had  no  name,  no  shape  —  was  none  ? 

He  rose  —  and  tried  to  sing.    With  work 
Untroubled  veins  would  come  again. 
"  Goodbye,  dear."     In  the  words  no  lurk 
Of  presage  pierced  him  with  its  dirk. 
Soon  was  the  wharf  in  sight;  the  river 
Rippled  around  it  silvery. 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  35 

Was  it  the  cold  wind  made  him  L^iiver? 
He  forced  his  feet;  and  soon  the  greeting 
Of  many  rugged  hands  was  meeting. 

Then  with  the  foreman's  orders  given, 
He  turned  to  mount  toward  the  office 
Whither  he  had  been  driven,  driven, 
By  the  thing  hid  in  him,  unshriven. 
Passing  the  window  he  beheld 
A  child  upon  the  deck  below. 
A  wish  to  speak  to  it  upwelled. 
But  he  went  on  —  on,  thro  the  door. 
Across  the  bloodstain  on  the  floor. 

Then  on  the  desk  he  saw  the  weight. 
It  stopped  his  feet  —  and  shuddering 
As  in  a  strained  hypnotic  state 
He  was  drawn  backward  by  his  fate. 
He  gazed  as  one  who  in  a  beryl 
Calls  up  the  ghosts  of  dead  events 
Despite  the  prescience  of  their  peril 


36  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

Compelled  —  by  something  in  his  brain. 
Then  memory  swept  thro  him  plain. 

The  weight  again  was  in  his  hand  .  .  . 
He  saw  his  father's  blood-lit  eyes  .  .  . 
He  flung  it,  at  his  fear's  demand  .  .  . 
The  night  was  lit  as  by  a  brand. 
Then  came  the  darkness  and  the  stumbling 
Toward  the  dead  thing  upon  the  floor. 
Anguish  then,  and  the  fever's  rumbling. 
Telling  him  ever  thro  its  blur 
He  was  his  father's  murderer. 

"  O  God,"  he  moaned,  ''  what  shall  I  do!  " 
And  gazed  unseeing  on  the  river  — 
Which  was  not  with  him  yet  quite  thro  — 
"  What  have  I  brought  love's  beauty  to?  " 
He  moaned  again,  then  to  his  feet 
Sprang  with  his  hands  locked  on  his  breast, 
And,  as  one  who  transcends  defeat, 
Tho  he  must  die,  said  tearful,  "  Yes  .  .  . 
I  must  confess.     I  —  will  confess.'^ 


OLD  GARTH'S  JESS  37 

He  started  to  the  door,  aware, 
Or  half  aware,  of  stir  below. 
He  staggered  blindly  down  the  stair. 
Who  called  his  name  —  what  happened  there? 
The  deckhands  huddled  on  the  edge 
Of  the  chill  wharf  were  in  commotion. 
"He's    sunk  .  .  .  run!  .  .  .  ketch    him!  ...  git 

the  dredge!  " 
They  cried  —  and  in  the  water  Jess 
Saw  a  child's  face  in  drowning  stress. 

Jess  knew  no  more  than  that  he  slipped, 

As  down  into  the  icy  flood 

He  plunged,  and  that  his  limbs  were  gripped 

By  cramps  that  from  him  all  strength  stripped. 

The  child  beside  him  sank,  then  he 

Sank  too,  once,  twice  —  how  cold,  how  cold 

Was  the  brown  water's  mastery. 

He  thought  of  Ellen  —  saw  her  face. 

And  then  was  nowhere,  in  no  place. 


38  OLD  GARTH'S  JESS 

V 

They  drew  him  —  and  the  child  —  found  near 

Together  —  out  upon  the  shore. 

Ellen,  whose  heart  would  be  his  bier 

Forever,  came  without  a  tear. 

He  for  another  died  ?    Then  grief 

Unworthy  of  him  should  not  rend 

Cries  from  her  —  but  sublime  belief 

In  the  great  glory  of  her  God 

She  wrung  from  each  slow-falling  clod. 

So,  the  years  pass.    And  crescentwise 
The  city  grows ;  while  sire  and  son 
Still  by  the  river's  fall  and  rise 
Fight  the  old  fight  that  never  dies. 
For  between  young  and  old  the  hill 
Of  life  rises  and  neither  sees 
More  than  the  way,  unmastered  still. 

That  must  be  gone And  so  the  woes 

Of  wanton  time  still  round  them  close. 


CHANSON  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  OSENEY 

(13th  Century) 

The  bells  of  Oseney 
(Hautclere,  Doucement,  Austyn) 
Chant  sweetly  every  day, 
And  sadly,  for  our  sin. 
The  bells  of  Oseney 
(John,  Gabriel,  Marie) 
Chant  lowly. 

Chant  slowly, 
Chant  wistfully  and  holy 
Of  Christ,  our  Paladin. 

Hautclere  chants  to  the  East 
(His  tongue  is  silvery  high). 
And  Austyn  like  a  priest 
39 


40        CHANSON  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  OSENEY 
Sends  west  a  weighty  cry. 
But  Doucement  set  between 
(Like  an  appeasive  nun) 
Chants  cheerly, 

Chants  dearly, 
As  if  Christ  heard  her  nearly, 
A  plea  to  every  sky. 

A  plea  that  John  takes  up 
(He  is  the  evangelist) 
Till  Gabriel's  angel  cup 
Pours  sound  to  sun  or  mist. 
And  last  of  all  Marie 
(The  virgin- voice  of  God) 
Peals  purely, 

Demurely, 
And  with  a  tone  so  surely 
Divine,  that  all  must  hear. 

The  bells  of  Oseney 
(Doucement,  Austyn,  Hautclere) 


CHANSON  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  OSENEY        41 
Pour  ever  day  by  day 
Their  peals  on  the  rapt  air; 
And  with  their  mellow  mates 
(John,  Gabriel,  Marie) 
Tell  slowly, 

Tell  lowly, 
Of  Christ  the  High  and  Holy, 
Who  makes  the  whole  world  fair. 


THE  AVENGERS 

{An  Interlude) 

[A  road  in  Belgium,  desolate  as  only  night,  destruc- 
tion and  the  cruelty  of  7nen  can  make  it.  Three 
unearthly  forms  seem  gathered  together  on  it  — 
the  ghosts  of  a  Belgian  child  who  has  starved,  of 
a  French  woman  who  was  raped,  and  of  a  slain 
German  soldier.  They  are  hand  in  hand  and 
have  paused  helplessly,  as  if  so  recently  dead  as 
to  be  uncertain  of  their  state.  Beyond  them  are 
impalpably  felt  the  ruins  of  a  church,  a  windmill, 
and  a  house  or  two.  Farther  down  the  road  an 
unreal  light  seems  to  shine  from  some  door  or 
window. 

The  child  is  whimpering.  The  woman  peers  anx- 
iously. The  soldier  looks  hopelessly  on  the 
42 


THE  AVENGERS  43 

ground.     All    are    like    shapes    in    a    dream. 
The  Child.     My  mother  —  did  my  mother  starve 
too? 

I  want  her!  ...  Is  this  Heaven? 
The  Soldier.  No,  little  one. 

I  do  not  think  so;  for  it  seems  so  dark. 

And  yet  I  do  not  know:  perhaps  it  is. 

The  Woman.    It  is  not.    We  are  lost.  Or  it  may  be 
There  are  so  many  dead  the  gates  that  lead 
To  the  other  world  are  thronged  and  we  must  wait. 
Or  it  may  be  that  God  —  if  still  He  cares  — 
Has  yet  some  earth-aim  for  us. 

The  Soldier.  It  may  be  .  .  . 

So  many  things  may  be.    And  yet  it  seems 
That  the  aims  of  God  are  too  like  those  of  men. 
My  Emperor  avowed  it  was  God's  will 
That  I  should  leave  my  wife  and  little  children 
To  take  up  arms  and  kill. 

The  Woman.  Yes,  kill  and  ravish, 

Until  we  kill  ourselves  —  as  I  have  done. 


44  THE  AVENGERS 

The  Soldier.    No,  no:  not  that.    I  had  a  wife  I 

loved. 
The  Child  [again  whimpering].    My  mother  loved 
me.    Is  it  far  to  Heaven? 
Why  did  God  let  me  starve  ? 
The  Soldier  [shudders] .        Hush,  little  one. 
The  Child.     But  why  ? 

The  Woman.     For    this:    to    feed    the    German 
Emperor. 
Who  might  have  starved  for  glory,  had  you  eaten. 
The  Soldier.     Ah  that  is  terrible.    Do  not  say 
that. 
We  are  dead  now,  and  truth  alone  is  left. 
The  Child.     I  did  not  want  to  starve.    Why  did 

God  let  me  ? 
The  Soldier.    We  must  go  on.    Perhaps  we  shall 
find  out. 
That  light  may  lead  us  to  the  gate  we  seek 
Out  of  the  world :  for  surely  one  is  near. 
The  Woman.     I  think  we  are  kept  here  for  some 
avenging. 


THE  AVENGERS  45 

The  Soldier.     Must  even  the  dead  avenge?    God 
should  not  ask  me 
To  kill  again !     I  can  not ! 
The  Woman.  Come :  let's  on. 

[Leads]. 
The  Chtld.     I  could  walk  better  if  I  did  not  hun- 
ger. 
Will  there  be  bread  in  Heaven?    plenty  of  bread? 
[A  Shape  in  the  gloom  before  them  stays  the 
answer.     It   is   that   of   a    German   Sentinel. 
They  halt  helplessly.] 
The   Soldier    [who  shrinks].    We  cannot  pass. 

We  have  no  countersign. 
The  Woman.    The  dead  need  none.    See,  he  is 
unaware. 
To  him  we  are  invisible  and  soundless. 
We  can  be  known,  I  think,  only  by  those 
For  whom  we  are  kept  here.     Come. 
The  Child  [as  they  pass].  I  am  afraid. 

Will  any  take  our  bread  from  us  in  Heaven  ? 
The    Soldier.    No,    little   one.     Ah!  .  .  .  [stops 


46  THE  AVENGERS 

by    sentinel].     It    is    my    brother,    Gustav. 
He  is  with  the  Emperor  —  in  the  Emperor's  guard. 
The  Woman.     That    light,    then,    is    within    the 
Emperor's  quarters. 
And  now  —  at  last !  —  I  seem  to  understand. 
[The  scene  darkens,  as  she  speaks,  and  then  is 
slowly  transformed.    It  becomes  a  dim-lit  room 
in  which  is  the  Emperor.     He  sits  at  a  table, 
but,  starting,  cries  out  as  the  Three  appear  spec- 
tral before  him :  cries,  and  his  sword  falls  clang- 
ing.] 
[An  officer  enters.] 
The  Officer.     You  called  me,  sire. 
The  Emperor  [still  staring].  No,  no.     I  did 

not  call. 

[  The  Three  have  faded.  ] 
The  Officer   [surprised].    Then,  sire,  goodnight 

again. 
The  Emperor.  Goodnight  .  .  .  goodnight. 

[With  more  terror,  however,  when  the  Officer 
has  retired.] 


THE  AVENGERS  47 

Am  I  distempered,  still?     I  thought  I  saw  them. 
Will  the  Almighty  never  ease  my  eyes 
With  angels  or  archangels?  but  send  ever 
These  dead,  with  their  undying  misery? 
Is  He  not  with  me,  His  divinely  chosen, 
With  me  to  give  my  armies  victory? 
[Then  trembling  as  the  Three  again  appear.] 
Once  more  you  come?     Begone.     What  do  you 
seek? 

[They  gaze  at  hint.] 
The  Woman.     You  raped  me,  sire. 
The  Emperor  [hoarsely].  Not  you  nor  any.  Away! 
The  Woman.     You  raped  me  —  and  raped  France. 
The  Emperor.  Lies!  it  is  lies! 

[Half  strangles.] 
The  Soldier.     No,  sire;  but  truth.     For    I    was 
made  to  do  it : 
I  and  my  German  comrades. 
The  Emperor.        Traitor!     Traitor! 
Your  Fatherland  was  ringed  by  enemies. 

[Tries  to  rise.] 


48  THE  AVENGERS 

The  Child  [to  the  Woman] .     That  is  the  man  who 
took  away  my  bread, 

And  let  me  starve. 
The  Emperor.     No;  it  was  War  did  it! 

Take  her  away! 

The  Woman.    Yes,  sire;  but  there  will  come 
Others  and  yet  others  who  are  dying, 
And  who  are  dead,  on  every  hour  of  the  night  — 
Starved  and  ravished,  murdered  and  slaughtered 

others. 
For  you  shall  never  again  look  on  the  living 
But  there  shall  be  about  you,  ever  escapeless. 
The  pale,  piteous  and  accusing  presence 
Of  the  unnumbered  dead.  .  .  . 

The  Emperor.  Help'!  .  .  .  Help! 

[He   has   swooned  —  his   head   falling   forward 
upon  the  table.] 

The  Woman.    Now  we  can  find  the  gate  out  of 
the  world. 
[They  pass  slowly  thro  the  walls  again  hand  in 


THE  AVENGERS  49 

hand.  The  scene  darkens  and  once  more 
becomes  the  desolate  road  —  with  only  the  wind 
now  sighing  along  the  waste.] 


PROCESSIONAL 
(April  6,  1917) 

Not  for  a  flaunted  flag,  O  God, 

Not  for  affronted  power, 
Not  for  a  scurrile  hope  of  gain. 

Not  for  the  pride  of  an  hour. 
Not  for  vengeance,  hot  in  the  heart. 

Now  do  we  swing  to  war! 
Not  for  a  weak  mistrust  lest  peace 

Is  a  shame  strong  men  abhor. 
Not  for  glory  —  for  oh,  to  kill 

Should  be  a  sacred  wrath : 
Not  for  these !  but  to  war  on  war 

And  sweep  it  from  earth's  path! 

Patient  has  been  our  creed,  till  now, 
Patient,  too,  our  hope, 
50 


PROCESSIONAL  51 

Patient  for  long  our  loathful  deed, 

For  the  just  in  doubt  must  grope. 
But  with  a  foe  at  last  arrayed 

Against  the  whole  world's  right,         ^ 
You,  O  soul  of  the  universe, 

Your  very  self  must  fight. 
You  yourself;  so  but  one  prayer 

Need  we  to  lift  —  but  one. 
That  by  our  battle  shall  all  war 

Be  utterly  undone. 


REVOLUTION 

{Russia  risen:  Germany  bound) 

The  spell  is  broken! 

The  evil  centuries  drop  away  like  sleep ! 

Freedom  has  spoken! 

And  by  that  token 

The  gyves  of  tyranny  that  trenched  so  deep, 

And  ate  into  the  flesh  and  soul  of  a  nation 

Till  gangrenous  damnation 

Seemed  running  leprous  thro  it, 

Are  rent,  are  rent  away,  in  a  swift  hour, 

With  wild  power, 

By  the  millions  who  so  long  were  made  to  rue  it! 

The  spell  is  rent! 

From  the  Arctic  to  the  Caspian,  in  twain! 
52 


REVOLUTION  53 

And  from  the  Prison  Plain 
Of  stark  Siberia  to  the  Baltic  Main ! 
And  now,  O  Earth,  a  free  host  shall  be  pressed, 
As  in  the  West, 

Against  Autocracy  at  last  shut  lean, 
From  all  wide  Europe  else,  into  one  land  — 
Where  it  shall  starve  and  bleed  and  starve  and  die, 
Unless  along  its  veins  too  leaps  that  cry 
For  SELF-RULE  —  which  alone  God  will  let  stand ! 

And  shall  that  cry  not  come? 

Shall  Russia  rise, 

Russia  a  serf  under  her  sterile  skies, 

And  on  her  starven  steppes. 

Yet  not  Kultur-2icda.immg  Kaiserdom? 

Shall  the  untutored  peasant  seize  the  dream 

Of  liberty,  once  more  thro  the  world  astream, 

While  that  great  Race, — 

Whose  reckonings  in  many  a  darkest  place 

Of  the  dead  Past 

Might  well  have  swept  its  spirit,  first  not  last, 


54  REVOLUTION 

To  the  Democratic  Day, — 

Fails  to  surge  up,  at  the  Future's  trumpet-blast? 

No,  people  of  the  Rhine! 

Who  have  freed  Music,  brought  it  from  the  deeps 

Of  the  heart's  prison  chambers; 

Who   have    freed   Thought  —  that   now    no   more 

remembers 
Its  one  time  fear  to  face  the  Universe; 
Who  have  freed  God  —  opened  the  Church  Door, 
That  would  have  held  Him  shut  within  a  Creed, 
Until  He  now  may  speak,  to  any  need, 
Thro  Book  or  star, 
Or  the  star-shivering  sea  — 
No,  no!  Rise  up  in  your  humanity, 
And  set  yourselves  free! 
And  war  no  more  save  for  an  end  to  War ! 

Rise  and  say  to  your  Foes, 

*'  We  want  no  mastery  save  of  the  world's  woes !  '* 

Out  of  the  hurricane  tides  of  blood-madness 


REVOLUTION  55 

Lift  such  a  flag 

Of  arbitrage  that  all  your  cruel  brag 

And  frenzied  might  shall  be  forgot  in  praise  — 

And  not  endow  with  sadness 

Your  sons'  sons,  and  be  their  bitter  drag ! 

Rise  and  say,  "  Join  us.    All  have  sinned. 

Let  us  no  longer  reap  the  dire  whirlwind. 

For  peace  is  the  price  neither  of  bravery 

Nor  cowardice  —  but  of  the  will  to  see 

That  the  earth  is  all  men's  —  all. 

And  so,  can  so  be  kept 

Only  when  nations  from  their  shrines  have  swept, 

At  a  world-call. 

That  loud  self-worship,  Nationalit>' !  " 


TO  A  FIREFLY  BY  THE  SEA 

Little  torch-bearer,  alone  with  me  in  the  night, 
You  cannot  light  the  sea,  nor  I  illumine  life. 
They  are  too  vast  for  us,  they  are  too  deep  for  us. 
We  glow  with  all  our  strength,  but  back  the  shadows 

sweep : 
And  after  a  while  will  come  unshadowed  Sleep. 

Here  on  the  rocks  that  take  the  turning  tide; 

Here  by  the  wide  lone  waves  and  lonelier  wastes  of 

sky, 
We  keep  our  poet-watch,  as  patient  poets  should. 
Questioning  earth's  commingled  ill  and  good  to  us. 
Yet  little  of  them,  or  naught,  have  truly  understood. 

Bright  are  the  stars,  and  constellated  thick. 

To  you,  so  quick  to  flit  along  your  flickering  course, 

56 


TO  A  FIREFLY  BY  THE  SEA  57 

They  seem  perhaps  as  glowing  mates  in  other  fields. 
And  all  the  knowledge  I  have  gathered  yields  to  me 
Scarce  more  of  the  great  mystery  their  wonder  wields. 

For  the  moon  we  are  waiting  —  and  behold 

Her  ardent  gold  drifts  up,  her  sail  has  caught  the 

breeze 
That  blows  all  being  thro  the  Universe  always. 
So  now,  little  light-keeper,  you  no  more  need  nurse 
Your  gleam,  for  lo!  she  mounts,  and  sullen  clouds 

disperse. 

And  I  with  aching  thought  may  cease  to  burn, 
And  humbly  turn  to  rest  —  knowing  no  glow  of  mine 
Can  ever  be  so  beauteous  as  have  been  to  me 
Your  soft  beams  here  beside  the  sea's  elusive  din : 
For  grief  too  oft  has  kindled  me,  and  pain,  and  the 
world's  sin. 


A  WIFE  — TO  A  HUSBAND  DISGRACED 

I 

I  could  see  you  die,  dear, 

Since  your  shame  is  such; 
Die  —  and  let  dying  clear 

The  cloud  of  it  away. 
Little  was  it  that  you  did, 

Yet  so  overmuch 
That  all  cruel  hands  now 

At  your  heart  may  clutch, 
And  all  tongues  of  bitterness  betray. 

II 
I  could  see  you  die  —  yes, 
For  so  proud  you  were, 
You !  that  no  glory  less 
Than  self-respect  can  serve 
58 


A  WIFE  59 

Still  to  keep  your  head  high 

Above  the  slime  and  slur, 
The  laughter,  the  contumely. 

That  fallen  men  incur : 
And  but  death  can  still  the  broken  nerve. 

Ill 

For  you  cannot  win  back, 

Hope  of  that  is  shut; 
Falls  there  are  that  seem  to  lack 

The  footway  up  again ; 
Seem  to  leave  the  foiled  heart 

With  every  fibre  cut: 
Little  was  the  way  down 

But  soul-deep  the  rut: 
Like  infinity  its  inches  pen. 

IV 

So  your  petty  self-fall 

May  be  measureless. 
Oft  we  cannot  tell  at  all 

If  the  end  is  wreck. 


60  A  WIFE 

Foes  may  drive  us  down  a  brink 

And  we  but  address 
Mind  and  soul  to  mount  again 

Out  of  all  distress: 
But  self-fallen  we  are  at  fate's  beck. 

V 
I  could  see  you  die,  then, 

Die  —  for,  as  of  old, 
Love  is  not  a  stay  to  you 

Now  that  honor's  gone. 
To  a  wife  the  stings  of  shame 

Are  naught  if  she  be  told. 
Still,  that  she  is  dearer  than 

All  dreams  the  sky  can  hold: 
Would,  oh  would  you  too  could  so  live  on ! 


QUESTIONS 

What  shall  I  do  when  blows  blind  me? 
How  fare  on  when  counsels  cross? 
Where  shall  I  turn  when  life  behind  me 
Seems  but  a  course  run  at  a  loss? 
Thro  what  throes  shall  I  beat  to  windward, 
Uncontent  with  a  lesser  port  ? 
Whom  shall  I  trust  when  Heaven  of  me, 
Heaven  itself,  seems  making  sport? 


How  shall  I  answer  a  knave's  rating, 
Done  in  a  liar's  arithmetic  ? 
What  shall  I  say  to  a  fool's  prating, 
In  destructiveness  as  quick? 
How  shall  I  meet  a  friend's  treason, 
When  it  has  scuttled  the  good  ship  Faith  ? 
61 


62  QUESTIONS 

Whose  are  the  stars  if  wide  disaster 
As  its  will  can  do  me  scath  ? 

Answer  there  is  —  a  brief  order, 
"  Bear  all  blows  and  yet  be  free; 
Let  no  bitterness  set  a  border 
To  your  will,  no  treachery. 
Speak  —  if  you  are  the  bigger  for  it, 
Keep  the  silence  if  you  are  less, 
And  if  the  stars  indeed  be  Godless, 
Steer  still  by  their  godliness." 


TRANSMUTATION 

It  is  just  a  common  bell,  in  a  dull  and  dirty  cupola, 

But  somehow  I  am  off  across  the  seas, 
To  a  little  town  in  Italy,  a  church  in  sunny  Italy, 

Beneath  calm  silvery  olive  trees. 
And  a  lake  is  lapping  by,  lap-lapping  at  the  fisher 
boats, 
And  mountain  peaks  are  lifting  snowy  mitres  to 
the  breeze. 
And  a  mass  is  being  said,  and  a  prayer  is  in  a  hun- 
dred throats  — 
Soft,  and  asway  with  mysteries. 
And  I'm  one  with  the  murmur  of  the  aves  and  I 
cross  myself 
And  dip  my  hand  in  holy  water  too; 
And  I  kneel,  at  every  station  of  the  Passion;  then 
toss  myself 

63 


64  TRANSMUTATION 

Down,  by  the  altar,  with  the  True. 
It  is  just  a  common  bell,  in  a  dirty  little  cupola  — 

But  campaniles  rise  into  the  sky, 
And  a  simple  God  is  mine  again,  a  God  all  divine 
again, 

Till  ...  I  remember,  with  a  sigh! 


WASTE 

I  flung  a  wild  rose  into  the  sea, 

I  know  not  why. 
For  swinging  there  on  a  rathe  rose-tree, 
By  the  scented  bay  and  barberry, 
Its  petals  gave  all  their  sweet  to  me. 

As  I  passed  by. 

And  yet  I  flung  it  into  the  tide. 

And  went  my  way. 
I  climbed  the  gray  rocks,  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  cove  of  peace  I  tried, 
With  none  of  them  all  to  be  satisfied, 

The  whole  long  day. 

For  I  had  wasted  a  beautiful  thing, 
Which  might  have  won 
65 


66  WASTE 

Each  passing  heart  to  pause  and  sing, 
On  the  sea-path  there,  of  its  blossoming. 
And  who  wastes  beauty  shall  feel  want's  sting, 
As  I  had  done. 


THE  HEART  OF  GOD  IS  MY  DEMESNE 

The  heart  of  God  is  my  demesne, 

I  wander  there  all  day, 

With  the  winds  of  hope. 

And  the  winds  of  joy, 

And  the  winds  of  fear  at  play. 

I  feel  the  sunsets  of  His  worlds, 

And  the  dawns,  come  and  go  there; 

I  hear  the  surging  of  His  seas, 

And  all  desires  that  flow  there. 

I  sense  the  rhythm  of  His  years 

Like  waters  ever  falling; 

Their  music  sometimes  is  as  tears 

Or  prayer-voices  calling; 

I  breathe  all  beauty,  and  the  clouds 

Of  sorrow  that  sweep  thro  it, 

67 


68        THE  HEART  OF  GOD  IS  MY  DEMESNE 
Or  horrors  that  in  sickening  shrouds 
Drift,  dumb,  into  it. 
The  vast  pulse  of  the  Universe 
Is  there  forever  beating, 
Time-that's-past  and  Time-to-come 
Meeting,  melting,  fleeting. 

The  heart  of  God  is  my  demesne, 

For  what  is  it  but  Life? 

But  a  wonder-place 

Where  a  child  laughs. 

Or  a  million  fall  in  strife ! 

But  a  blest  place  —  or  a  curst  place 

I  call  on  death  to  swallow. 

Nor  let  another  from  the  womb 

Of  wanton  Being  follow ! 

But  a  place  that  once  wandered  in 

I  caimot  cease  from  wanting, 

Or  trusting,  tho  its  way  has  been 

Woe-bestrewn  or  daunting. 

A  place  to  bide,  with  earth  and  star, 


THE  HEART  OF  GOD  IS  MY  DEMESNE         69 
Created  yet  creating, 
At  peace  sometimes  or  at  wild  war, 
Fated  —  yet  ever  fating. 
The  heart  of  God  is  my  demesne, 
For  what  is  it  but  Life? 
The  heart  of  me  is  God's  demesne, 
I  help  Him  win  the  strife. 


SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 

I 

THE  HEART'S  QUESTION 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 

To  find  a  wind-flower 
Twinkling  in  the  wild-wood 

Hour  after  hour, 
Dancing  to  the  wind's  pipe 

With  a  happy  nod? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 
To  find  the  young  moon 

Flitting  thro  the  tree  boughs 
In  her  silver  shoon, 

70 


SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R.  71 

Seeking  for  the  wind-flower 

There  along  the  sod  ? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing  ? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 

To  find  in  your  face 
Something  of  the  wind-flower 

And  young  moon's  grace? 
Something  of  the  wild-wood, 

Ever  faery-trod? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

n 

FIRST  AND  LAST 

Night  has  uttered  a  star, 

A  first  faint  word 

Of  her  epic  to  follow. 
Night  has  uttered  a  star; 


72  SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 

It  hangs  in  the  dusk's  high  hollow. 
Night  has  uttered  a  star; 
As  you,  immutably  dear  to  me, 
First  uttered  the  word  that  brought  my  heart 
Starry  infinity. 

Night  has  ended  her  lay, 
Her  epic  lay 
Of  heavenly  burning. 
Night  has  ended  her  lay, 
And  the  dawn  wind  is  returning. 
Night  has  ended  her  lay; 
But  starriest  murmurs  of  your  love 
Thro  all  my  being's  breadth,  I  know, 
Can  never  cease  to  move. 


KING  AMENOPHIS 

(A  screed  for  deported  Belgians) 

King  Amenophis  built  him  a  tomb, 
Down  in  the  desert's  sandy  womb, 
Where  he  might  lie,  with  a  slave  or  two, 
To  spare  him  labors  the  dead  must  do, 
King  Amenophis! 

Yes;  he  built  it  cunningly  deep 
And  secret,  safe  from  the  Nile's  sure  seep. 
But  time,  sifting,  came  to  rot  him, 
And  the  tomb-robbers  at  last  got  him, 
King  Amenophis! 

So  I  am  sure  you  pity  him,  friends; 
For  no  slave  of  his  myriad  bends 

73 


74  KING  AMENOPHIS 

Over  him  now  —  but  whoso  lists 
Of  idlers  or  archeologists  — 

King  Amenophis! 

Surely  you  pity  him !    For  great  kings 
Who  slay  and  enslave  are  sacred  things. 
And,  ...  if  any  today  are  left, 
Surely  they  should  not  be  bereft 

Like  King  Amenophis! 


RECRUIT  961 

I  will  go  over  the  sea's  anesthetic, 
To  the  field  of  Flanders, 
And  ask  a  surgeon  bullet  to  slit  my  heart 
And  let  this  passion  out. 
For  I  love  two  women, 
Each  beautiful  as  the  other. 
And  one,  if  I  live,  will  cruelly  ache  and  suffer 
With  want  of  me,  even  as  I  of  her. 
While  one,  if  I  die,  will  think  of  me  as  faithful, 
True  as  the  earth  is  to  the  moon's  turning. 
I  will  go  over  the  sea's  anesthetic 
To  Surgeon  Death,  who  serves  on  the  field  of  Flan- 
ders. 


75 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STORM-SPIRITS 

Come  over  the  tide. 


Come  over  the  foam, 
Dance  on  the  hurricane,  leap  its  waves, 
Dream  not  of  the  calm  sea-caves 
Nor  of  content  in  them  and  home. 
For  that  is  the  reason  the  hearts  of  men 
Are  ever  weary  —  they  would  abide 
Somewhere  out  of  the  spumy  stride 
Of  the  world's  spindrift  —  a  want  denied. 
That  is  the  reason :  tho  they  know 
That  the  restive  years  have  no  true  home, 
But  only  a  Whither,  a  Whence  and  When  — 
Then,  .  .  .  when  the  tide  has  turned  again. 
Whence  and  Whither,  for  hearts  to  roam. 
And  who  would  stay  but  a  little  while, 
Not  dance  as  we,  and  sing  on  the  wind, 
76 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STORM-SPIRITS  77 

Against  the  whole  flow  of  the  world  has  sinned, 
And  soon  is  weary  and  cannot  smile. 
Dance  then,  dance,  on  the  fleeting  spray! 
None  can  gather  eternity 
Into  his  heart  and  bid  it  stay, 
Swiftly  again  it  slips  away. 
Dance,  and  know  that  the  will  of  Life 
Is  the  wind's  will  and  the  will  of  the  tide, 
And  who  finds  not  a  home  in  its  strife 
Shall  find  no  home  on  any  side ! 


THE  WRECK-BUOY 

(A  wife  speaks) 

They  praise  my  courage  and  put  me  here 
By  a  ribald  wreck  and  say,  "  My  dear, 

Still  guard  us  from  this  poor  hulk. 
He's  battered,  we  know,  and  gone  to  the  bad, 
His  chart  is  lost  and  the  sails  he  had, 
His  rudder  is  gone,  his  heart  is  crazed 
With  the  wind  —  and  the  tide  when  the  wind's 
raised, 

And  horrors  thro  him  skulk." 

They  praise  me,  yes,  and  bid  me  bide, 
Anchored  here,  on  the  channel  side, 

Where  the  living  ships  go  by; 
Anchored  here,  by  a  debauchee, 
78 


THE  WRECK-BUOY  79 

A  derelict  of  the  fair  free  sea ; 
Where  never  a  word  of  the  world  I  hear, 
Port  news,  from  afar  or  near, 
But  only  his  maundering  in  my  ear, 
With  sotted  boast  or  sigh. 

And  I'm  weary  of  it  —  of  listening 
To  the  loose  log  of  his  voyaging 

In  the  days  of  his  desire. 
I'm  weary  of  hearing  him  strangle  and  cough 
And  hush  when  the  tide  of  life  draws  off : 
And  I  do  not  care  what  you  may  think, 
I'm  glad  when  I  see  him  sink  and  sink, 
And  gladder  I'll  be  when  the  sea  shall  drink 

Him  down  to  utter  mire. 


DELIVERANCE? 

{At  the  moment  of  the  Russian  Revolution) 

"  Give  up  your  dead,"  the  cry  came,  to  prison  and 

mine  and  quarry, 
"  Give  up  your  living  dead  to  life  again!  " 
And  all  Siberia  lying  under  a  night  numbly  starry, 
Awoke  out  of  her  sleep  — 
Awoke  as  at  the  Spring-thaw  — 
And  quivered,  and  was  delivered  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand men! 

Out  of  her  wombs  of  torture,  grief,  and  goaded  deg- 
radation, 

Out  of  her  fields  of  exile  and  despair, 

They  came  —  those  who  had  dreamed  the  dreams  of 
freedom  for  a  nation: 
80 


DELIVERANCE?  81 

Those  who  had  dared  to  speak, 
Timid  or  brave  or  blood-wild, 
Of  a  new  birth,  a  new  earth,  a  Russia  risen  fair. 

The  young  came  —  old  with  the  mar  and  misery  of 

waiting ; 
The  old  came,  withered  and  bent  and  dumb; 
Broken  of  mind,  broken  of  heart  —  broken  of  all  but 
hating; 

Back  to  love  of  the  sun, 
To  hope  so  long  undone, 
Or  hope  of  hope  in  the  better  days  of  healing  years 
to  come. 

The  pity  of  it,  the  glory!  oh  the  partings  and  the 

meetings ! 
Russia  again  is  reached  across  their  woes! 
Kisses  are  given,  with  the    pangs    of    long-forgot 
heart-beatings : 

Wherein  words  fail 
To  tell  the  horror's  tale  — 
Or  tell  it  over  and  over,  without  peace,  to  its  close. 


82  DELIVERANCE? 

Never  was  such  a  birth  —  of  the  dead  back  to  the 

living. — 
O  Freedom,  midwife  of  the  world's  desire, 
Be  with  all  lands  that  need  you,  in  their  hours  of 
birth-giving : 

And  lend  deliverance, 
As  great  against  mischance. 
To  every  noble  issue  Pity  and  Progress  seek  to  sire. 


THE  IMPERIAL  CITY 

(Pekin) 

Water,  under  white  bridges,  lilied  water,  under  the 
marble.  Still;  wdth  the  heavens  in  it.  ...  A 
bird's  warble. 

Green  limbs  drifting A  stork  out  of  the  shal- 
lows, under  the  arches,  suddenly  lifting. 

Over  the  roofs  blue-tiled,  where  I  am  wending,  over 
she  soars.  ...  A  mandarin  by  me  talks  of 
Emperors. 

Steps  up  to  a  shrine,  under  a  pine.  .  .  .  Strange 
heaven-beasts  guarding  it,  dogs  divine. 

I  slip  a  little  by  one  .  .  .  there  is  a  stain.     "  The 
blood   of   China,"    I   think,    "The   blood   of 
China !  "  and  sicken  with  pain. 
83 


84  THE  IMPERIAL  CITY 

I  turn:   the  beauty  is  gone:   tyranny  left.  ...  I 

have   been   feeding   my   senses   where   starved 

millions  were  bereft. 

But  I  remember,  a  new  banner  now  waves.  ...  No 
more  is  this  a  changeless  land  of  Emperors  and 
slaves. 


THE  PRICE 

Violets  under  the  may-apple, 

Bluets  dancing  blue, 

And  nakedly  leaping  sun-dapple, 

All  the  wood  thro, 

Feel  no  blight  of  the  world's  blood 

A-flow  now  in  France. 

And  I  would  the  piteous  drip  of  it, 

The  ache  of  it  and  grip  of  it. 

Might,  for  only  a  little  while, 

Leave  my  heart  too ! 

For,  I  am  weary  of  thinking, 
And  knowing  thought  is  vain. 
Better  is  any  sinking 
Than  under  the  world's  pain. 
God  of  the  distant  star-deeps, 
85 


86  THE  PRICE 

The  centuries  to  come 
May  shape,  out  of  our  sufferings, 
A  peace  that  shall  no  more  take  wings. 
But  oh  the  beauty  broken  now 
To  gather  that  far  gain ! 


THE  UNBORN 

(.4  Phantasy) 

The  place  of  the  unborn,  in  a  part  of  the  earth  from 
which  the  Immafient  God  seems  for  the  moment 
strangely  withdrawn.  Its  impalpable  vastness, 
through  which  time  scarcely  flows,  is  thronged  by 
the  shapes  of  unborn  souls  who  know  that  at 
birth  they  must  lose  these  shapes  and  tak-e  on 
humanity.  Apparitions  they  are,  yet  not  alter* 
gether  so.  For  the  prescience  of  life,  which  alone 
gives  them  being,  is  upon  them:  a  prescience  now 
mingled  with  awe  and  terror.  For  swaying  and 
clinging  to  each  other  they  are  looking  off  into  an 
unfathomable  Darkness  through  which  thousands 
of  phantom  forms  of  the  newly  dead  are  drifting. 
And  this  drift  of  ghosts  at  times  becomes  denser 
87 


88  THE  UNBORN 

as  the  wounded  and  shattered  and  starved  from 
earth's  battlefields  glide  pallid  by. 
[The  unborn  are  at  last  unable  to  endure  the  sight 
in  silence.     A  pale  shuddering  surges  over  them 
and  their  leaders  begin  variously  to  speak.'] 
The  First.     Myriads! 
The  Second.  Slain  and  starven! 

The  Third.  Slain  and  frozen! 

And  drifting  out  of  life  —  to  which  we  go! 
Drifting,  there,  on  the  dark  winds  of  death 
Whose  void  is  deeper  than  the  Universe. 
[The  throng  crouch  from  the  sight,  hiding  their 
faces.] 

It  should  not  be.     It  is  too  horrible. 
The  Second.     Birth  into  bitterness  —  then  death 
and  drifting! 
This  womb,  that  is  before  the  womb,  is  better, 
Tho  here  we  know  but  pallor  and  premonition. 
Have  we  sought  life  that  we  should  suffer  it  ? 
God  should  not  send  us  to  it. 
The  Second  [to  all] .     He  should  spare  us. 


THE  UNBORN  89 

[They  lift  a  great  moan.] 
Yes,  spare  us  birth  —  that  leads  only  to  death. 
So  shall  we,  who  are  humanity-to-be, 
Shall  we,  oh  souls  unborn,  not  dare  to  tell  Him? 
[They  look  up,  gazing  at  him  and  at  themselves. 
Then  at  length  groups  grasp  his  words  and  arise 
crying :  ] 
Some.     Yes,  we  will  tell  Him ! 
Others.  He  shall  pity  us ! 

Humanity  should  vanish  —  it  is  inhuman, 
A  deathward  stream  of  cruelty  and  woe. 
Yet  Others  [suddenly  aware  of  His  absence,  with 
terror] . 
We  cannot  tell  Him.     He  has  forsaken  us. 
His  Immanence  is  as  a  wind  that  was. 
[In  dismay  and  confusion  they  flutter  —  then  turn 
to  First  Leader:  for  he  alone   has   heard   all, 
undistr  aught.] 
Some.     Where  is  He?  where? 
Others.  Tell  us!     Is  it  forever? 

First  Leader  [not  answering  till  they  are  calmer]. 


90  THE  UNBORN 

He  has  withdrawn  a  little  while  to  earth. 
Second  Leader  [bitterly].    To  drive  these  drifting 
millions  so  to  death  ? 

[The  slain  surge  by.] 
The  First.     You  speak  so,  thinking  life  is  pain 
alone. 
Nor  see  how  in  these  faces  swept  and  swirled 
Innumerably  there  is  an  ecstasy 
As  of  immortal  dreams;  a  hushless  hope, 
A  beauty  of  great  daring  and  enduring. 
Is  there  not  some  transcendence  then  of  life, 
Some  anodyne  that  makes  its  agony 
Dearer  than  our  dim  void  of  impotence? 
[They  are  moved:  but  another  vast  gust  of  the 
dead  undoes  them.] 
Many.     No,  no,  life  is  despair.     From  the  begin- 
ning 
The  unborn  have  shrunk  from  birth,  and  to  the 

end 
They  will  shrink. 
Many  Others.     And  that  Darkness  is  forever! 


THE  UNBORN  91 

The  dead  but  drift  the  deeper  into  it. 
Let  us  rebel  and  ask  extinction  now! 
Second  Leader   [wildly].    Yes,  let  us  rebel!  let 
us  rebel ! 

[They  surge  around  him.] 
For  God's  impenetrable  aspiration 
May  destine  some  to  happy  planes  of  beauty 
Above  the  beat  of  pain,  but  we  are  many 
Who  bear  ever  the  weary  mortal  weight 
Of  the  world's  vain  and  universal  woe. 
Cries  [from  all  sides].    Where  is  He  then?  where 

is  He? 
Others.  Where!  for  .  .  .  Oh!  .  .  . 

[A  thought  has  pierced  them.] 
Perhaps  He  never  was! 
Second  Leader  [u^iZJ^iVr].     So!     It  is  so! 

[Terror  takes  them.] 
He  never   was!     There   is   no   God!     There   is 

none! 
From  birthlecsness  we  are  swept  into  birth, 
Where  Chance  alone  invests  humanity 


92  THE  UNBORN 

With  duping  spirit-tentacles  to  cling 
To  life  with  —  Chance  alone !     There  is  no  God  1 
[Fear,  Hope  and  Despair  play  over  them.] 
Some.     What  shall  we  do  then  ?  what  ? 
Others  [frantically].  Let  us  be  free! 

Let  us,  eluding  life,  leap  to  the  dead, 
Forth  thro  the  suicidal  universe 
Of  Darkness! 
Others.  Free!  free!    Let  us  leap  free! 

[They  run  in  hosts  to  the  brink  of  the  Dark  and 
leap  into  it  —  heedlessly  upon  each  other,  in 
wide  disarray.     But  vainly,  for  a  wave  of  it 
wafts  them  back  to  their  place.] 
The  First  Leader  [ivhen  strewn  and  spent  they  lie 
there  wailing]. 
Ignorant  is  your  deed  and  unavailing. 
Never  shall  any  reach  in  coward  ways 
To  mastery  —  or  to  end  —  of  his  existence. 
And  lo,  the  prescient  moment  of  our  birth 
Is  trembling  out  of  eternity  —  is  here. 
[The  Immanent  has  filled  the  place  again  as  he 


THE  UNBORN  93 

Speaks  —  and  the  invisible  winds  of  birth  begin 
to  blow.  The  unborn  are  swept  to  earth,  and 
from  there,  as  they  vanish,  the  weak  birth- 
whimper  of  a  child  is  wafted  back.] 


BROTHER  BEASTS 

Winter  is  here 
And  there  are  no  leaves 
On  the  naked  trees, 
Save  stars  twinkling 
As  the  wind  blows. 
Soft  to  the  branches 
The  little  screech-owl 
Silently  comes, 
Silently  goes, 
With  weird  tremolos. 


I  would  go  out 
And  gather  the  stars 
The  wind  shakes  down, 
Were  they  not  scattered 
94 


BROTHER  BEASTS  95 

So  far  in  the  West. 
I  would  go  ask 
The  little  screech-owl 
If  he  finds  ease 
There  in  his  nest 
After  his  quest. 

I  would  go  learn 
If  the  small  gray  mouse 
Who  sets  up  house 
In  the  frozen  meadow 
Dreams  of  the  stars. 
Or  what  he  thinks 
There  in  the  dark, 
When  flake  on  flake 
Of  white  snow  bars 
Him  in  with  its  spars. 

I  would  go  out 

And  learn  these  things 

That  I  may  know 


96  BROTHER  BEASTS 

What  dream  or  desire 
Troubles  my  brothers 
In  nest  or  hole. 
For  even  as  I 
The  owl  and  the  mouse, 
Or  blinded  mole 
With  unborn  soul, 
May  have  some  goal. 


A  WOMAN  \\1^0NGED 

I  am  dead  and  in  my  grave. 

Let  me  alone. 

The  seeping  of  rains  down  thro  me, 

And  the  reaching  of  roots  down  after  me, 

And  the  skimming  of  leaves  above  me,  are  enough. 

Let  me  alone. 

You  have  had  your  will  of  me, 

So  wherefore,  now, 

Should  your  questions  creep  here  to  me. 

And  the  roots  of  your  doubt  reach  at  me. 

And  your  thoughts  restively  skim  and  shudder  above 

me? 
Let  me  alone. 

Would  you  rifle  the  grave,  too  ? 
97 


98  A  WOMAN  WRONGED 

Go  away. 

I  have  nothing  left  for  your  taking. 

My  hair  is  not  gold,  but  dust  now. 

My  eyes  are  not  stars,  but  stillness. 

My  flesh  is  not  beauty  aflame,  but  very  cool. 

Let  me  alone. 


TO  A  SOLITARY  SEA-GULL 

Lone  white  gull  with  sickle  wings, 
You  reap  for  the  heart  inscrutable  things: 
Sorrow  of  mists  and  surf  of  the  shore, 
Winds  that  sigh  of  the  nevermore; 
Fret  of  foam  and  flurry  of  rain, 
Swept  far  over  the  troubled  tide; 
Maths  of  mystery  and  grey  pain 
The  sea's  voice  ever  yields,  beside. 
Lone  white  gull,  you  reap  for  the  heart 
Life's  most  sad  and  inscrutable  part. 


99 


INEFFABLE  THINGS 

The  little  song-sparrow  is  gone 
And  the  summer  is  nearly  ended, 
The  rill  of  his  song  was  a  happy  rift 
In  the  surging  sound  of  the  sea. 
The  swallow  is  lingering  on, 
And  the  silvery  swift  sandpiper, 
And  I  —  tho  I  know  my  saddened  heart 
Has  lost  an  ineffable  thing, 
That  summer  no  more  can  bring. 

With  the  first  bay-leaves  that  flung 
Their  scent  to  me  by  the  billows, 
I  twined  some  faith,  some  trust, 
As  glad  as  the  sparrow's  song. 
And  the  terns  that  darted  among 
The  tides  seemed  weaving  for  me 
100 


INEFFABLE  THINGS  '  ;  •  ''l^Ol'; 

Impalpable  wings  of  peace  and  hope  — 
That  now  have  taken  flight 
Beyond  the  day  and  the  night. 

Ah,  Life,  you  have  known  my  plea 

For  sun  and  the  tide  of  fortune, 

For  winds  to  waken  my  sail  and  bear 

Me  joyously  over  the  world. 

Know  too  how  much  of  your  fog 

And  storm  and  rain  I  will  suffer, 

If  only  you  do  not  sweep  from  me 
The  dear  ineffable  things, 
To  which  your  fragrance  clings. 


KATENKA'S  LOVER 

(Russia) 

Little  Katenka  took  twelve  weeds 
And  wove  them  into  a  wreath  for  her  hair; 
Buttercup,  rattray  and  marguerite, 
Parsley,  clover  and  nettle  were  there. 
"  I  want  to  behold  in  dreams,"  she  said, 
"  In  magic  dreams  my  destined  lover!  " 
And  .  .  .  she  did;  for  a  weed  bane-bred 
Brought  dreams  to  little  Katenka! 

Deep  dreams !  so  now  the  ikoned  priests 
Have  carried  her,  at  the  funeral  hour. 
Out  to  her  princely  lover.  Death, 
In  the  ever-blossoming  earth,  his  bower. 
And  she  shall  never  again  desire, 
102 


KATENKA'S  LOVER  103 

But  only  lie  in  his  arms  dreaming  .  .  . 
Little  Katenka,  in  a  bride-tire 
Of  peace  —  little  Katenka ! 


A  MOTHER 

{At  night) 

Rain  on  the  maples, 
Out  of  my  window, 
Beating  .  .  . 
Rain  in  my  heart, 
From  clouds  of  grief 
Within  me  .  .  . 
Because  a  new  grave, 
My  baby's  grave, 
In  the  darkness, 
Seems  so  little 
And  the  cradle  of  earth 
So  heedless  I 


104 


GIVE  OVER,  O  SEA! 

Give  over,  O  sea!    You  never  shall  reach  Nirvana  1 
Your  tides,  like  the  tidal  generations,  ever  shall  rise 

and  fall, 
And  your  infinite  waves  find  birth,  rebirth,  and  bil- 
lowy dissolution. 

The  years  of  your  existence  are  unending. 

The  years  of  your  unresting  are  forever. 

The  sun,  who  is  desire,  ever  begets  in  you  his  pas- 
sion, 

And  the  moon  is  ever  drawing  you,  with  silvery  soft 
alluring, 

To  surge  and  sway,  to  wander  and  fret,  to  waste 
yourself  in  foam. 

So  Buddha-calm  shall  never  descend  upon  you. 
105 


106  GIVE  OVER,  O  SEA 

And  tho  it  may  often  seem,  for  a  little  while,  you 
have  found  the  Way, 

Your  tempest-sins  return  and  quicken  to  wild  rein- 
carnations, 

And  again  great  life,  pulsing  and  perilous, 

Omnipotent  life,  that  ever  resurges  thro  the  universe, 

Lashes  you  back  to  striving,  back  to  yearning,  back 
to  speech. 

To  utterance  on  all  shores  of  the  world  of  things 
unutterable. 

Give  over  then,  you  never  shall  reach  Nirvana! 

Nor  I,  who  am  your  acolyte  for  a  moment; 

Who  swing  a  censer  of  fragrant  words  before  your 
priestly  feet, 

That  tread  these  altar-rocks,  bedraped  with  weeds 
gently  afloat. 

And  with  the  fluttering  wings  of  gulls  ever  mysteri- 
ous. 

Give  over  and  call  your  winds  again  to  join  you ! 


GIVE  OVER,  O  SEA  107 

O  chanter  of  deep  enchantments,  of  uncharted  lit- 
anies, 
Call  them  and  bid  them  say  with  you  that  life  tran- 
scends retreat, 
And  that,  in  the  temple  of  its  Immanence, 
There  is  no  peace  that  does  not  spring  daily  from 

peacelessness. 
And  no  Nirvana  save  in  the  lee  of  storm. 


THE  NUN 

A  lone  palm  leans  in  the  moonlight, 

Over  a  convent  vi^all. 
The  sea  below  is  waking  and  breaking 

With  a  calm  heave  and  fall. 
A  young  nun  sits  at  a  window; 

For  Heaven  she  is  too  fair; 
Yet  even  the  dove  of  God  might  nest 

In  her  bosom  beating  there. 

A  lone  ship  sails  from  the  harbor: 

Whom  does  it  bear  away? 
Her  lover  who,  sin-hearted,  has  parted 

And  left  her  but  to  pray? 
She  has  no  lover,  nor  ever 

Has  heard  afar  love's  sigh. 
108 


THE  NUN  109 

Only  the  Convent's  vesper  vow 
Has  ever  dimmed  her  eye. 

For  naught  knows  she  of  her  beauty, 

More  than  the  palm  of  its  peace : 
And  none  shall  cross  her  portal,  to  mortal 

Desires  to  bend  her  knees. 
The  ways  of  the  world  have  flowers, 

And  any  who  will  pluck  those; 
But  in  His  hand,  against  all  harm, 

God  still  will  keep  some  rose. 


A  RHAPSODIST'S  SONG 

All  the  birds  shall  sing  to  me, 

When  I  reach  Heaven. 

All  the  leaves  shall  dance  for  me, 

Seven  times  seven. 

All  the  rills  of  bliss  shall  run, 

Cloud-free,  from  out  its  sun; 

All  the  flowers  of  all  bowers, 

Pour  me  fragrance,  hours  and  hours; 

All  the  air  I  breathe  shall  be 

Joy's  sweet  leaven. 

Mystic  apples  shall  I  pluck 
For  my  soul's  feeding. 
On  a  green  palm-bed  I'll  lie, 
Man  and  God  reading. 
I  will  fan  me  with  the  wings 
110 


A  RHAPSODIST'S  SONG  111 

Of  my  own  imaginings ; 
And,  to  dally  down  each  alley 
Of  its  dream-enverdured  valley, 
I  will  follow  every  breeze 
Languorously  leading. 

When  I  wish,  too,  I  will  scale 

Tops  of  mountain  beauty. 

I  will  learn  how  dawTis  are  made, 

How  stars  do  their  duty. 

I  will  hold  the  high  moon's  sphere 

Oft  to  my  attentive  ear. 

And  each  comet,  trailing  from  it 

Leagues  of  light,  shall  be  a  plummet 

For  my  soul  thro  deeps  of  space 

Strewn  with  death's  booty. 

Yes,  I'll  do  this  every  day, 
In  the  vales  of  Heaven. 
For  my  need  of  it  will  be 
Seven  times  seven: 


112  A  RHAPSODIST'S  SONG 

Need  of  birds  and  mystic  rills, 
Need  of  apples  for  soul-ills; 
Need  of  vision,  where  elysian 
Dews  shall  star  my  heart's  decision 
To  delight  in  love  —  and  in 
Life  Immortal's  leaven. 


INSULATION 

The  telephone  lines, 
Etched  by  the  lightning's  needle 
On  the  night  plate  of  her  window, 
Seemed  but  as  strands  of  a  dream's  phosphorescence 
Flashed  rippling  to  her  out  of  the  drench  of  the 
darkness. 

Yet  one  of  them  was  bearing. 
Past  her,  thro  the  wet  shimmer  of  the  shower. 
The   sinuous   words  —  her  husband's   to  his   mis- 
tress — 
"  Tonight,  my  passion-flower!  " 


113 


ISEULT  OF  IRELAND 

(By  Tristram  dead,  in  the  halls  of  Iseult  of 
Brittany) 

I  will  go  up  to  a  high  tower 

And  gaze  over  the  sea, 
Letting  my  thoughts  as  gulls  fly, 

Utterly,  utterly. 

And  if  the  wind  beats  them  back 

Against  cliff  and  tower, 
Breaking  their  wings,  blinding  them, 

Hour  after  hour; 

Breaking  their  wings,  blinding  them, — 

At  least  one  may  reach 
Across  Death,  my  Tristram, 

And  tremblingly  beseech, 
114 


ISEULT  OF  IRELAND  115 

That  you  will  tell  me  if  in  truth 

You  loved  me  only  thro 
The  potion  that  we  drank  —  or  for 

My  own  self  too ! 

For  this  Iseult  of  the  White  Hand 

Is  all,  all  too  fair! 
I  will  go  up  to  a  high  tower 

And  ask  the  winds  there. 


TO 

A  year  ago  you  died, 

And  we  bore  you,  palely  coffined, 

Down  to  a  darkened  room. 

And  you  lay  there  —  still  as  snow 

On  a  forgotten  tomb. 

Your  three-year  baby  said, 
"  Who's  in  that  box  down  stairs?  " 
Then,  innocent  of  the  dead. 
While  the  hot  tears  choked  us, 
"  I  know.     It  is  my  mother, 
I  saw  my  mother's  head !  " 

We  did  not  let  him  kiss  you, 
We  did  not  let  him  clasp  you, 
116 


TO 117 

And  the  hearse  came;  the  clod; 
And  he  laughed  —  at  the  flowers. 
How  far  it  is  to  God  I 


THE  HILLS  I  HAVE  NEVER  REACHED 

The  hills  I  have  never  reached 

Lie  ever  before  my  eyes. 
Wherever  I  am,  wherever  I  go, 

They  rest  on  the  rim  of  the  skies. 
And  they  lead  my  longing  forth, 

The  unutterable  in  me, 
To  seek  for  all  I  have  ever  dreamed 

Beauty  or  joy  could  be. 

The  hills  I  have  never  reached 

Lie  always  in  my  sight, 
Swathed  in  the  tender  mystery 

Of  unattainable  light. 
And  the  hue  of  them  is  hope, 

The  shape  of  them,  despair; 
Their  distance  ever  unwaning  —  for 

Heart  never  reaches  there. 
118 


THE  HALF-BREED 

Let  me  go  back  again, 
For  want  of  it  comes  over  me, 
Back  to  wilds  of  Pima 
And  wastes  of  Maricopa. 
There  with  desert  under  me 
And  desert  night  to  cover  me, 
Night,  with  the  cactus  stars 
To  prick  and  spur  me  on, 
Let  me  by  my  tribe  stray, 
A  far-ranging  rover  be. 
With  no  pale-face  lodges 
Between  me  and  the  dawn. 

Let  me  go  back  again. 

For  Yaqui  blood  awakes  in  me, 
Let  me,  free  of  tethering, 
Of  toil  and  creed  and  cavil, 
119 


120  THE  HALF-BREED 

Out  with  the  coyote  go, 
For  now  his  crying  aches  in  me  — 

Out  across  the  mesa 

That  knows  but  hunger-law  — 
Out,  with  the  winds  to  walk, 
Till  every  bondage  breaks  in  me, 

Till  the  Red  blood  in  me 

The  White  begins  to  thaw. 

Let  me  go  back  again, 
For  soul's  of  little  use  to  me, 
Soul  and  smoky  hoping 
For  Hunting-Grounds  Immortal. 
From  their  blind  sting  and  strife 
They  never  grant  a  truce  to  me. 
Never  send  a  pause-hour 
To  string  the  beads  of  peace. 
Never  let  the  trail  end. 
With  time  and  tepee  loose  to  me, 
Never  let  tomorrow 
Unborn  and  troubling  cease. 


THE  HALF-BREED  121 

Let  me  go  back,  then, 
For  cities  can  but  sicken  me. 

Soiling  and  eclipsing 

Sun,  moon  and  all  the  seasons. 
Let  me  go  where  silences 
And  savage  loneness  quicken  me, 

Even  as  the  void  waste 

No  foot  has  ever  trod. 
Let  me  go  where  primal  thirsts 
Thew  my  heart  and  thicken  me 

'Gainst  the  throes  of  thinking, 

'Gainst  the  goads  of  God. 


THE  RIDE 

I  saw  a  young  spirit  wildly  astride 
Of  the  new  moon  ride,  ride  and  ride  — 
Into  the  clouds  and  over  the  stars, 
Down  the  West  and  away! 

His  hair  was  streaming,  a  silver  misty 
And  meteor  reins  were  around  his  wrist. 
Whence  was  he  going  and  where  no  word 
Of  earth  can  ever  say ! 

And  yet  I  know  that  the  swift  white  fire 
Bearing  him  on  was  the  world's  desire: 
So  after  him  wildly  rapt  I  rode, 
Almost  down  to  the  day! 


122 


THE  FARING  OF  FA-HIEN 

Thro  Gobiland's  sea  of  sand, 
Where  pilgrim  bones  are  mile-stones, 
Where  no  birds  sing,  no  beasts  run, 
Where  there  is  only  sun  and  sun, 
Went  Fa-Hien. 

He  was  faring,  a  monk  of  Han, 

Out  thro  the  desert,  past  Khotan; 

Thro  hot  winds  and  demon  sands. 

That  haunted  the  way  in  swirling  bands, 

He  was  going  to  Buddha  lands. 

Was  Fa-Hien. 

His  camel  was  chosen  at  Changgan, 
His  place  was  bought  in  the  caravan. 
"  All  is  maya,  a  dream  of  man," 
123 


124  THE  FARING  OF  FA-HIEN 

He  said  as  the  desert  sea  began, 
And  said  it  again  as  the  hot  sea  ran, 
Did  Fa-Hien. 

For  the  air  was  thirst,  the  sun  desire, 
And  his  blood  became  a  passion  fire. 
He  saw  cool  waves  and  soft-limbed  slaves, 
As  only  a  man  can  see  who  craves. 
"  From  woman  nothing  truly  saves," 
Thought  Fa-Hien. 

But  soon  they  vanished,  one  and  all, 

When  he  had  reached  Khotan's  sure  wall. 

For  stealing  from  its  mystic  calm 

He  thought  he  felt  Lord  Buddha's  "  Om  " 

Laid  on  his  spirit  like  a  balm, 

Did  Fa-Hien. 

So  on,  thro  perilous  Hindu  Kush, 
Down  to  the  Indus  did  he  push, 
Down  rock-steeps,  wild  and  hilly, 
To  where  the  Ganges  flows  stilly, 


THE  FARING  OF  FA-HIEN  125 

For  he  was  fain  of  the  Lotos-lily, — 
Fa-Hien. 

Yes,  fain  in  the  place  of  Buddha's  birth 

To  find  the  Way  of  Priceless  Worth; 

In  Kohana  to  reach  Nirvana 

And  take  back  thence  some  secret  mana  — 

For  it  is  here,  surely  here, 

Mused  Fa-Hien. 

And  so,  ten  years,  of  monk  and  sage 

He  questioned,  scanning  the  sutras'  page; 

And  miracle  —  and  magic  too 

He  wandered  thro  and  pondered  thro, 

Till  spent  he  said,  "  No  Creed  will  do," 

Did  Fa-Hien. 

Then  old  light  thro  him  sifted  back, 
And  life  no  more  was  maya-hldick.. 
"  Nirvana's  far  from  all  who  preach  it; 
But  the  world's  near  and  I  can  reach  it; 


126  THE  FARING  OF  FA-HIEN 

Give  to  me  then  what's  good  for  men," 
Said  Fa-Hien. 

So  forth  he  sailed  from  Ganges'  mouth 
To  that  fair  emerald  in  the  South, 
To  far  Ceylon,  and  thence  fared  on. 
Thro  desert  seas,  past  night  and  dawn, — 
His  camel  a  ship,  by  the  winds  drawn, 
Did  Fa-Hien. 

And  back  to  the  tawny  Yangszte  came. 
Where  life  was  teeming  ever  the  same. 
And  when  his  junk,  with  the  tide  drunk, 
Was  moored,  he  said,  "  I'm  still  a  monk. 
But  I  am  a  man  who  trust  time's  plan, 
I  Fa-Hien." 


A  LOVER,  DECEIVED 

I 
One  Day 

Is  it  the  sea  crying,  or  the  gray  gulls? 
Is  it  the  wind 
On  the  wet  beach  sands? 
Or  is  it  a  phantom  desire's  unrest  that  pulls 
At  the  heart  of  me,  with  lone  invisible  hands? 


The  air  is  wings,  all  wings.  .  .  .  Would  the  world 
were! 

The  sea  is  a  tide 
Ebbing  away. 
But  oh  how  slow  the  pulses  in  me  stir, 
How  long  the  wingless  stagnant  moments  stay ! 
127 


128  A  LOVER,  DECEIVED 

And  now  come  rain  and  fog  like  dirge  and  cloth 

To  enshroud  all  passion  — 

They  and  the  bell  — 
The  bleak  buoy-bell.  ...  It  does  not  matter:  loath, 
All  loath  am  I  for  what  the  world  calls  well. 

Oh  love  that  is  deceived :  that  trusted  deep 

And  now  is  only 

A  craving  cry! 
That  could  not  one  dear  face  from  falseness  keep, 
And  so  finds  all  life's  beauty  but  a  lie. 

II 

Another 

Who  has  hushed  the  sea's  heart? 

Calm  it  is  and  still; 

With  no  gulls  crying, 

And  no  wind's  wine. 
With  islands  like  gray  dreams 

Beyond  desire  lying. 


A  LOVER,  DECEIVED  129 

Who  has  hushed  the  sea's  heart? 
Let  Him  hush  mine! 

Who  has  hushed  the  sea's  heart  ? 

Passion  is  a  surf 

That  breaks  thro  my  being 

And  beats  in  my  breast. 
From  its  lone  pain-sway 

Is  there  no  fleeing? 
Who  has  hushed  the  sea's  heart? 

I  too  would  rest ! 


AT  THE  DANCE 

(A  blind  husband  speaks) 
There  amid  the  dancers 
All  may  see  her  glide ; 
I  alone  with  blind  eyes 
Stare  into  the  throng. 
Thickly  comes  the  music; 
Many  on  its  tide 
Bear  her  beauty  by  me 
Charmed  hours  long. 

All  the  lights  are  rapture, 
Every  breath  is  joy; 
That  even  blind  eyes 
Can  feel  with  sense  averse. 
Oh  to  strike  the  dance  dead, 
Suddenly  destroy 
130 


AT  THE  DANCE  131 

Rhythm  to  its  last  source 
In  the  Universe! 

For  with  rhythm  passion 
Wakes,  in  every  breast. 
It  is  Nature's  love-throb 
Luring  all  the  world. 
Atoms  answer  to  it, 
Dance  and  never  rest. 
May  not  bliss  forbidden 
Thro  her  too  be  swirled  ? 

Shame — shame  upon  me! 
Deeper  rhythms  sound 
In  her  from  my  blind  eyes 
Than  to  earth  belong. 
All  may  look  upon  her, 
Many  lead  her  round; 
I  alone  have  brought  her 
Love's  star-circling  song. 


HER  GOD 

You  think  I  came  out  to  the  wood  with  you 

To  take  my  April  fill 
Of  leaves  not  love?    Then  know,  my  dear, 

A  futile  and  vain  ant-hill 
Of  hope  was  that,  dug  grain  on  grain 

Out  of  your  heart's  quick  sod. 
And  yet  .  .  .  tho  I  have  trampled  it, 

I  still  shall  be  your  god. 
You  think  I  came  out  to  the  wood  with  you 

To  murmur  in  the  shade? 
Only  that?    Not  I,  my  dear; 

So  now  .  .  .  you're  not  a  maid. 
My  want  has  had  its  veriest  will, 

Nor,  fears  remorse's  rod; 
So  whether  I  love,  or  love  you  not, 

I  still  shall  be  your  god. 
132 


DANSE  MACABRE 

(Suggested  by  old  pictures) 

I  heard  a  great  rattle  of  bones  in  the  night, 
And  saw  the  dead  rise  from  the  earth  —  a  sight ! 
They  carried  them  lanterns  of  will-o'-the-wisps, 
And  their  speech  cackled  and  broke  with  lisps. 

They  flung  shrouds  off  and  got  in  a  ring, 
And  knuckle  to  knuckle  I  saw  them  spring. 
Their  hair  blew  off,  and  skull  to  skull 
They  gabbled  and  danced,  interminable. 

And  thigh-bone  rattled  with  bone  of  thigh, 
As  tooth  and  tongue  were  spat  at  the  sky. 
And  they  chaunted  a  chilly,  gibbering  chaunt 
Of  how  the  dead  have  never  a  want. 
133 


134  DANSE  MACABRE 

"  For  what  want  we  of  the  Universe, 
We  who  have  six  full  feet  of  clay 
To  be  for  our  cuddling  bones  a  nurse," 
They  clacked  in  a  rasping  roundelay. 

"  What  want  we  of  the  Universe? 
We  lie  in  the  dust  there  snug  and  still ; 
And  the  quick  may  have  their  better  or  worse : 
We  have  what  's  best  —  we  have  our  will." 

So  with  cackle,  gabble  and  dance. 

With  rattle  of  joints  and  jig  and  scream, 

Then  back  to  their  graves  with  skitter  and  glance 

They  dropt.     Zounds!  what  an  idiot  dream! 


A  NORSE  SONG 

Along  the  coasts  of  Nevermore 
A  lone  loon  cries, 
The  gray  loon  Despair, 
With  a  heart  that  cannot  rest. 
His  wail  is  the  world's  wail 
For  youth  that  never  dies; 
And  I  have  listened  to  it 
Till  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 

Along  the  coasts  of  Nevermore, 
Past  all  return, 

Youth's  years  are  gone  from  me, 
As  all  joys  go. 
Thro  the  lone  fiords 
Of  its  yesterdays  I  yearn, 
But  only  find  Despair's  wild  woe. 
135 


MOON-FLIGHT 

That  wingless  bird,  the  moon, 
With  silvery  phantom  breast, 
Flutters  around  the  earth 
And  cannot  find  a  nest. 
Her  mystic  plumes  are  moulted 
Each  month,  and  dropt  to  men, 
But  ever  does  nest-yearning  bring 
Their  beauty  back  again. 


136 


THE  RESURRECTION  ACCORDING  TO 
THOMAS 

Jesus  Christ  woke  in  the  tomb 

Of  Joseph  of  Arimathea, 
From  death  as  he  thought,  for  nigh  three  days 

Had  drawn  over  Judea: 
Nigh  three  days  that  his  soul  had  counted, 

Somehow,  under  his  trance, 
Yet  he  was  troubled,  for  of  the  dead 

He  brought  no  circumstance. 

Jesus  Christ  cared  for  his  wounds 

That  Nature  had  set  healing. 
And  walked  out  under  the  stars  of  dawn, 

Like  a  white  spirit  stealing. 
He  slipped  from  the  sight  of  three  women 

Who  sought  his  tomb  to  moan, 
137 


138      RESURRECTION  ACCORDING  TO  THOMAS 
And  heard  them  saying,  "  Lo,  an  angel 
Has  rolled  away  the  stone!  " 

Jesus  Christ  went  thro  the  fields 

At  twilight  to  Emmaus. 
Much  changed  he  was,  as  he  broke  bread 

With  two  —  whose  hearts  were  chaos 
When  he  had  gone  and  they  of  a  sudden 

Knew  that  it  was  he. 
And  he  shook  as  he  heard  their  cry,  "  O  grave, 

Where  is  thy  victory !  " 

Jesus  Christ  to  the  twelve  appeared. 

The  twelve,  save  one,  Judas; 
Then  fully  died :  for  his  wounds  were  wrung 

With  doubt  lest  he  delude  us; 
For  he  knew  not  whether  his  lone  dying 

That  day,  on  the  cross. 
Was  death  indeed.     And  all  we  know 

,Is  grief  for  him  and  loss! 


ROSE  AND  LOTUS 

Rose,  rose,  flower  of  Christ, 
And  lotus,  flower  of  Buddha, 
Make  a  new  beauty  for  the  world 
Of  your  petals  intertwined. 
Give  your  color,  your  desire. 
Rose,  that  the  lotus  may  aspire. 
Give  your  patience  and  your  peace, 
Lotus,  for  the  rose's  ease. 
Of  your  petals  intertwined 
Make  a  new  beauty  for  the  world. 
Rose  and  lotus,  set  your  mind 
To  this  gift  for  mortal  kind. 


139 


ATAVISM 

I  leant  out  over  a  ledging  cliff  and  looked  down  into 
the  sea, 

Where  weed  and  kelp  and  dulse  swayed,  in  green 
translucency; 

Where  the  abalone  clung  to  the  rock  and  the  star- 
fish lay  about, 

Purpling  the  sands  that  slid  away  under  the  silver 
trout. 


And  the  sea-urchin  too  was  there,  and  the  sea- 
anemone. 

It  was  a  world  of  watery  shapes  and  hues  and  wiz- 
ardry. 

And  I  felt  old  stirrings  wake  in  me,  under  the  tides 
of  time, 

140 


ATAVISM  141 

Sea-hauntings  I  had  brought  with  me  out  of  the 
ancient  slime. 

And  now,  as  I  muse,  I  cannot  rid  my  senses  of  the 

spell 
That  in  a  tidal  trance  all  things  around  me  drift 

and  swell 
Under  the  sea  of  the  Universe,  down  into  which 

strange  eyes 
Keep  peering  at  me,  as  I  peered,  with  wonder  and 

surmise. 


STRANGENESS 

(In  Spring) 

How  strange  that  I  should  care 
Whether  my  heart  expresses 

The  witching  mysteries  that  lair 
In  the  wind's  soft  caresses. 

How  strange  that  I  should  long 
To  leash  in  speech  undying 

The  wood-wild  evanescent  throng 
Of  odors  round  me  flying. 

How  strange  that  I  should  hear 
A  bird-note,  then  think  heaven, 

Or  earth  itself,  could  be  made  clear 
With  six  right  words  —  or  seven! 
142 


FORECAST 

There  will  be  storm:  the  rough  tides  moan, 
The  wild  torn  kelp  is  shoreward  blown, 
The  foaming  sands  with  rubble  are  stro\^Ti, 
The  cormorant  cries  on  the  rocks  alone. 

There  will  be  storm :  the  dark  wrack  blends 
With  winds  that  never  have  been  man's  friends, 
With  missing  beats  the  bell-buoy  sends, 
With  ships  that  pass  to  unknown  ends. 


143 


THE  CLOSED  GATES 

O  who  has  closed  the  gates  of  the  world 

The  sea-gates  flowing  free, 
The  mountain-gates  and  the  hill-gates 

God  made  for  all  that  be  ? 
There's  never  a  land  about  the  globe 

By  Him  shut  from  another; 
For  every  Strait  and  Stream  and  Pass 

Points  each  man  to  his  brother. 

O  who  has  closed  the  gates  of  the  world 
From  coast  to  farther  coast? 

From  Caucasus  to  crested  Alps 
That  tower,  a  snowy  host? 

There's  never  a  one  that  has  not  seen 
Blood  stream  and  armies  perish 
144 


THE  CLOSED  GATES  145 

For  freedom;   so  who  will  not,  now, 
World-ireedom  for  them  cherish? 

Yea,  who  has  closed  the  gates  of  the  world, 

The  gates  that  now  are  mined 
And  armed  and  guarded,  day  and  night. 

Except  to  sea  and  wind  ? 
There's  never  a  least  but  war  has  shut 

On  innocence  left  dying, 
Nor  will  long  years  of  penitence 

Avail  to  hush  that  sighing. 

Ay,  who  has  closed  the  gates  of  the  world. 

Where  food  to  the  poor  came  thro. 
Where  every  foot  that  tread  in  peace 

Knits  men  to  men  anew? 
Dear  God,  our  human  blood  is  one 

And  thro  your  heart  is  flowing ; 
Purge,  purge  it  then,  and  open  again 

The  gates  to  all  men's  going ! 


AN  AUSTRIAN  PRISONER 

(On  trial  in  the  Trentino) 

Reap?  we  reap  but  as  we  sow? 
Lies !  the  seed  of  the  past  is  in  us. 
Springing  up  in  a  heart  will  grow 
The  deeds  of  a  thousand  years  ago. 

Hang  me  then,  if  so  you  will, 
For  raping  her;  but  first  say  whether 
Some  wild  Hun  on  a  Roman  hill 
Was  not  in  my  passion  still? 

Some  wild  Hun  who  too  was  led 
Over  the  Alps,  starved  and  frozen, 
Dearthed,  like  me,  till  shame  was  dead 
Me  in  whom  this  lust  was  bred  ? 
146 


AN  AUSTRIAN  PRISONER  147 

Dearthed  and  driven,  until  unwary, 
Torn  from  home  and  torn  from  pleasure, 
He  would  have  seized  the  Virgin  Mary. 
Desperate  men  are  not  more  chary. 

Hang  me  then:  but  hang  the  Past! 
Let  curst  War  die  guilty  with  me. 
For  as  long  as  its  day  shall  last 
Any  man  may  so  break  fast. 


EASTER  SNOW 

Snow  on  the  gold 

Of  my  jonquils  falling, 

In  white  confusion. 

Was  Spring,  glad 

In  young  green,  yesterday, 

But  a  delusion? 

Snow  on  the  Easter  bells 
Wildly  ringing 
Christ  the  arisen. 
Can  their  peal 
Shake  it  away? 
Is  death  a  prison? 

Half  the  world  fears  so, 
Half,  hopes; 
148 


EASTER  SNOW  149 

All  the  world  wonders. 
Ah,  sad  snow! 
All  we  can  know 
Is  that  death  sunders ! 


A  WOOD-MOMENT 

In  the  green  hush  of  the  wood 

A  bubble  of  bird-song  broke, 
And  at  the  magic  word, 

The  wind  from  trance  awoke. 
A  wild-rose  leaned  to  a  bluet, 

A  blithe  brook-ripple  spoke; 
Then  came  a  leafy  laughter 

From  willow  and  ash  and  oak. 


Gaily  it  ran;  then  willow 
And  ash  and  oak  forgot. 

They  had  but  overheard 

Some  wood  sprite's  amorous  plot. 

The  rose  went  back  to  her  bliss, 
The  wind  sighed,  and  was  not. 
150 


A  WOOD-MOMENT  151 

Silence  again  was  the  bird's 
And  the  brook's  ecstatic  lot. 


POETS  THERE  ARE 

Poets  there  are  a  plenty,  who  catch  at  a  critic-creed 
And  ride  the  rumor  of  it  to  fame,  while  the  world 

waits  in  need, 
Ever,  ever  in  need  of  the  singer  to  whom  a  song  is  a 

star 
Wrought  in  the  nebulous  deeps  of  the  heart  where  the 

great  song-passions  are. 

Poets  there  are  a  plenty,  who  sell  their  souls  to  the 

new. 
And  cry  it  as  if  a  thousand  years  of  beauty  were 

untrue. 
Yet  brief  is  the  vaunt  of  a  singer,  whose  newness  is 

not  strong 
With  the  deep  sources  of  the  divine  in  all  immortal 


152 


IN  PRAISE  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

(On  his  Centenary) 

Away  with  trivial  bays, 

With  wreaths  and  dithyrambs, 

Upon  this  day  of  a  myriad  days 

When  a  great  heart  came  to  walk  earth's  ways 

And  sing  it  free  of  shams. 

To  sing  it  free  of  the  pale  complaint 

Of  souls  that  will  not  climb; 

And  free  of  the  petty  coward  taint 

Of  the  cavillers  at  Time. 

To  gaze  so  clearly  far 

Into  its  mystic  clod 

As  to  be  sure  it  is  a  star 

Tilled  by  the  touch  of  God! 


153 


OVER  THE  SANDS 

Over  the  sands  the  lightning  flashes, 
Veining  the  sea  with  sudden  fire, 

Startling  the  gulls  where  the  tide  plashes, 
Driving  them  from  their  food-desire. 

Over  the  sands  the  lightning  quivers, 

Over  the  lonely  marsh-rivers. 

Over  the  night  that  faintly  shivers 
With  its  ghostly  ire. 

Over  the  sands  the  moon  follows. 
Like  a  pale  boat  that  seeks  to  beach 

Her  bows  in  pines  —  that  chilled  swallows 
After  the  storm  with  wet  wings  reach. 

Over  the  sands  the  moon  shimmers, 

Mute  mid  a  host  of  star-swimmers, 

154 


OVER  THE  SANDS  155 

Making  her  port  where  the  West  glimmers 
Still,  thro  the  sunset's  breach. 


EVANESCENCIES 

The  wings  of  a  dream  striking  along  the  heart, 

The  wind  of  a  star  falling  impalpably, 

The  stillness  of  a  night-leaf,  the  moon's  trance, 

The  lapse  of  time  into  eternity. 

The  mutability,  despite  our  love. 

Of  the  dear  memory  of  those  long  gone, — 

These  things  can  shake  the  spirit  more  sometimes 

With  a  great  terror  of  the  great  Unknown, 

Than  all  earth's  long  immitigable  crimes. 

Than  all  its  historied  moan. 


156 


MY  ISLAND 

My  sea  has  an  island  —  whose  name  I  do  not  know. 

The  gulls  fringe  it  with  their  wings, 

From  dawn  to  sun-setting. 
I  never  cross  the  tide  to  it,  and  never  shall  —  for  so 
There's  left  to  me  a  place  where  disillusion  cannot 
go. 

My  sea  has  an  island  —  whose  riches  are  but  rocks, 
That  surf  alone  silvers, 
Or  sun  and  moon  shimmer. 
Yet  when  I'm  poor  in  peace  —  and  at  my  poverty 

life  mocks. 
These  riches  far  transcend  wealth  the  World  to  me 
unlocks. 


157 


THROUGH  HUE  AND  CRY 

Two  hounds  will  the  whole  world  follow, 
When  the  rest  of  the  pack  are  slain, 

Keen  Hope  a-leap  from  life's  hollow, 
Strong  Love  that  strikes  at  its  pain. 

Two  hounds  will  the  world  give  ear  to, 
In  the  Hunt  toward  Heart's  Desire, 

Strong  Love  all  courses  are  clear  to. 
Keen  Hope  no  peril  can  tire. 


158 


A  PARABLE 

Last  night  in  a  phantasmal  trance 
I  heard  the  flow  of  blood  in  France, 
Slow  trickling  out  of  severed  veins 
Down  to  the  roots  of  thirsting  plants. 


"  Good  nurture,"  said  one, ''  let  us  drink!  '* 
"  No!  "  cried  another's  lips  a-shrink. 
"  If  God  can  send  it,"  said  a  third, 
"  We  should  not  be  too  proud,  I  think: 


"  For,  is  the  earth  in  which  we  bide 
Other  than  blood  of  men  who've  died, 
Clotted  around  the  framing  bone 
Of  millions  long  since  petrified  ?  '* 
159 


160  A  PARABLE 

God  answered  then,  for  He  had  heard 
Each  hungry  and  despairing  word, 
"  Of  that  blood,  children,  know  this  too, 
Each  drop  within  My  heart  has  stirred." 


SENSE-SWEETNESS 

Flowers  are  dancing,  waves  playing,  pines  swaying, 

gulls  are  a-swarm; 
Sea   and   heather,    sunning   together,    glad   of   the 

weather,  with  God  are  warm. 

Flowers  are  dancing,  clouds  winging,  larks  singing, 

summer  abrew  — 
Summer  the  old  ecstatic  passion  of  Life  to  fashion 

the  world  anew. 


161 


MOTHER  AND  SON 

He  was  not  wanted  —  to  my  womb 

He  came  against  my  will, 
And  fed,  there,  upon  bitterness, 

Unborn  and  soulless  still; 
On  bitterness,  thro  nine  long  moons, 

And  on  rebellious  hate ; 
So  when  at  length  I  gave  him  birth 

I  gave  as  well  —  fate. 

For  mother-rapture  followed  then, 
And  pampering  thro  youth; 

The  wrong  I  did  him  in  the  womb 
I  doubled  by  a  ruth 

That  made  me  worship  him  —  and  all 
Restrainings  prostitute 
162 


MOTHER  AND  SON  163 

To  his  least  passion  or  desire, 
His  least  imperious  suit. 

So  now,  to  that  old  bitterness 

He  adds  a  bitter  care ; 
And,  ruined,  doubts  whether  a  God 

Has  ever  heard  a  prayer; 
Doubts,  yet  can  never  lay  in  him 

The  ghost  of  pale  remorse, 
That  haunts  me  too,  thro  the  long  years, 

With  lone  and  spectral  force. 


ARIEL  TO  THE  AGING  SHAKESPEARE 

If,  O  master,  at  your  heart 

Caliban  claws  of  age  creep, 

Call  me  to  come  from  the  air's  blue  deep, 

Call! 
For  I  know  where  dew  of  youth  yet  lingers 
On  great  dreams  you  hold  in  thrall. 
Know  how  to  strew  your  foes  with  magic. 

All! 
Know  to  undo  the  years  turned  tragic, 
Years  that  sigh  and  deathward  flow, 
While  grieved  musings  thro  your  spirit 

Go! 
Call  to  me  then,  for  swift  I'll  hear  it, 
I,  your  Ariel,  set  free, 
But  who  still  your  sprite  will  be ! 

Call! 

164 


PAGAN 

Will  the  earth-poetry  of  Greece  never  die? 
Sitting  in  the  green  wood,  lonely,  was  I, 
When  I  heard  a  voice  sing,  centuries  away 
From  the  Vale  of  Tempe,  from  the  gods'  sway : 
April  is  a  naiad 

Slipping  from  a  pool; 
May  a  leafy  dryad 

Hiding  in  the  cool; 
June  is  a  wood-nymph 

Teasing  them  to  play; 
Till  comes,  later, 

The  hot-hearted  satyr, 
August,  their  awaiter, 
To  frighten  them  away! 
Will  the  earth-poetry  of  Greece  never  die  ? 
Still  for  its  youth  must  the  whole  world  sigh? 
165 


PROVIDENCE 

When  I  was  far  from  the  sea's  voice  and  vast- 
ness, 

I  looked  for  God  in  the  days  and  hours  and  sea- 
sons. 

But  now,  by  its  large  and  eternal  tides  surrounded, 

I  know  I  shall  only  find  Him  in  the  greater  swing  of 
the  years. 

For  like  the  sea's  are  His  mysteries,  not  to  be  learned 

from  a  single  surf-beat, 
No  wave  suffices  Him  for  a  revelation. 
How  like  the  sea's,  that  dower  all  lands  with  green 

and  the  breath  of  blossoms, 
With  dews  that  never  have  heard  its  deathless  surges. 


166 


PROVIDENCE  167 

Let  me  be  patient,  then  —  sure  that  stars  are  not 

jetsam  tossing 
On  meaningless  waters  of  waste  Omnipotence. 
Let  me  be  patient,  even  when  man  is  sunk  in  the 

storm  of  His  purpose, 
And  swirled,  a  strangled  corpse,  under  His  ages. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

I 

When  Maisie  came  to  Wraithwood  Hill 
She  looked  back  from  it  to  the  town, 
Across  green  tops  of  pines  far  down, 
And  wondered  how  her  fate  would  fall. 
Straight  from  the  doorway  thro  the  trees. 
That  sighed  as  only  pines  can  sigh, 
She  saw,  swathed  in  the  setting  light, 
The  courthouse  tower  cut  the  sky, 
And  a  pang  quivered  in  her  eye. 

She  was  the  bride  of  Allen  Graves, 
Master  of  Wraithwood  and  its  Hill, 
That  rose  behind,  at  the  weird  will 
Of  Nature,  into  rocky  waves. 
168 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  169 

And  crevices  between  the  rocks 
Ran  dark  and  deep,  under  pine  glooms, 
Up  to  the  peak,  where  was  a  place 
Of  family  burial  —  whose  nine  tombs, 
One  yet  unfilled,  told  of  life's  dooms. 

Allen  had  won  her :  for  about 

Him  was  a  lure  of  mystery. 

He  had  lived  solitarily 

At  Wraith  wood  —  a  romantic  Doubt, 

A  Speculation  for  the  tongues 

Of  the  drab  little  town,  when  thro 

The  streets  at  times  he  spurred  his  roan. 

As  if  he  had  some  deed  to  do 

That  but  an  evil  spirit  knew. 

And  now,  the  bodeful  wedding  done, 
She  looked  back  with  a  pang  of  fear. 
She  had  left  so  much  that  was  dear; 
Had  she  for  shadows  given  the  sun  ? 
Under  that  tower,  pale,  perhaps, 


170  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

Now,  with  the  loss  of  her,  she  saw 
The  deep  eyes  of  another,  whom 
Love  with  its  unrequiting  law 
Had  left  for  loneliness  to  gnaw. 

One  she  had  known  from  childhood  days, 
Quentin  Gillespie,  a  glad  boy. 
With  whom  her  girl's  heart,  in  its  joy, 
Had  first  learnt  Nature's  wilding  ways. 
'Twixt  the  Toll  Gate  and  Crows'  Retreat, 
Or  by  creek  windings  east  and  west, 
They  knew  a  hundred  happy  dells  — 
One  happier  than  all  the  rest. 
Because  love  there  had  been  confessed. 

Happier  till  —  with  Quentin  grown 
To  manhood  and  a  hope  of  fame 
In  the  Law's  corridors  —  there  came 
Allen  across  her  heart,  unknown. 
And  as  a  willow  wand  is  drawn 
By  darkling  water  under  ground, 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  171 

She  to  the  strange  mood  of  his  bleod 
Was  drawn  —  and  now  to  him  was  bound : 
Tho  Quentin's  wrong  could  not  be  drowned. 

It  wrung  her.  .  .  .  But  she  started,  for 
Her  bridegroom's  gaze  was  on  her.  *'  Well  ?  *  * 
He  questioned,  with  a  tone  whose  spell 
She  almost  wished  now  to  abhor, 
"  Well,  is  that  tower  Regret's;  and  Law 
More  tempting  than  a  bridal  feast 
For  two  who  from  a  stench  of  flowers 
And  a  mellifluous  marriage-priest 
Are  for  a  honeymoon  released?  '* 

She  laughed,  but  somehow  shuddered.    This 
Was  his  well  wonted  way  .  .  .  and  yet, 
Tuned  as  she  was  to  reach  and  get 
His  vibrance,  there  was  some  Abyss, 
Some  more  than  tempting  mystery 
In  which  his  words  rang  resonant. 
''  Allen,"  she  said,  "  I'm  half  afraid; 


172  WRAITH  WOOD  HILL 

Tell  me  what  is  it  that  can  haunt 
Me  so  in  you  —  for  oh,  I  want  — " 

She  did  not  finish,  for  a  cloud 
Sullen  as  that  blotting  the  sun 
Out  of  the  west  seemed  darkly  spun 
Across  his  mood,  a  bitter  shroud. 
So  to  bring  brightness  back,  she  said, 
"  Come,  we  will  have  some  wine,"  not  know- 
ing 
That  of  all  words  flung  lightly  forth, 
None  that  were  meant  for  April  sowing 
Could  bring  a  more  relentless  mowing. 

She  did  not  see  that  as  he  wheeled 

A  duel  raged  upon  his  lips, 

A  spasm  with  his  soul  at  grips. 

Or  how  his  eye  thirstily  reeled. 

They  feasted,  and  the  wine  went  singing 

Into  her  heart  with  rilly  joy. 

To  his,  amid  her  bubbling  talk. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  173 

It  crept  with  madness  to  destroy, 
As  well  he  knew,  their  life's  alloy. 

For  while  she  lifted  to  her  lips 

The  happy  foam  that  set  joy  free, 

Each  silent  glass  of  devilry 

He  drained  lashed  him  with  sullen  whips. 

She  babbled  till  across  the  wings 

Of  her  light  words  a  low  oath  fell. 

"  By  God,  you  little  fool,"  he  said, 

"  Could  you  not  see  w^hat  was  my  spell? 

This  drink  for  me  is  fire  of  Hell. 

"  I'm  drunk,  upon  my  wedding  night, 
And  I'll  be  drunker  ere  the  day. 
Not  even  your  soft  body's  sway 
Can  tempt  me  now  this  thirst  to  slight." 
He  rose  and  left  her  in  the  glitter 
There  of  the  candles  and  cold  glass, 
That  seemed  to  burn  or  freeze  the  horror 
Of  what  had  darkly  come  to  pass 
Into  her  heart's  fate-stricken  mass. 


174  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

II 

So  began  life  for  Maisie  Graves  — 
Or  was  it  death ?    The  morning  came; 
The  moon  lost  all  her  silver  flame, 
The  crows  flew  fieldward,  hunger  slaves. 
The  dewy  stillness  of  the  pines 
Grew  on  her  eyes  that  had  not  closed. 
The  Court  House  clock  across  cool  space 
Rang  to  her  over  roofs  that  dozed. 
A  tense  sob  shook  her :  then  she  rose. 

No  sound  from  Allen  thro  the  night 
Had  come  to  her,  none  came  with  day. 
Locked  fiercely  in  he  drank  away 
His  soul  and  reason  —  and  her  right, 
Her  bridal  right,  her  woman  right, 
Her  love  he  swallowed  thro  those  hours : 
While  servants  tended  silently, 
As  if  compelled  by  occult  powers 
To  watch  death  settle  on  sweet  flowers. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  175 

Once  she  threw  on  her  hat  to  go 
Back  to  her  mother  —  or  to  him, 
Who  under  that  clock  tower,  dim 
Now  in  the  dazzling  overflow 
Of  the  full  sun  would  .  .  .  And  yet,  no. 
She  could  not  face  her  mother's  plaint, 
A  widow's  pale  and  privileged  whine; 
And  Quentin's  hungering  restraint 
Was  not  that  of  a  selfless  saint. 

And  so  she  waited,  wandered,  walked  — 
At  last  among  the  cone-strewn  rocks 
Of  Wraithwood  Hill;  and  by  a  fox 
Up  to  its  peak  unknown  was  stalked. 
Sudden  she  came  upon  that  place 
Of  burial  with  its  empty  tomb 
Agape  —  and  in  it  almost  stept : 
Then  fled  back  shuddering  thro  the  gloom 
Of  the  pine  boles  to  the  sun's  room. 

And  there,  staggering  out,  he  stood 
Before  her,  on  the  columned  porch, 


176  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

Allen  —  his  eyes  a  cunning  torch, 
And  treachery  within  his  mood. 
"  You  did  not  go  to  him?  "  he  said. 
Then  ere  her  lips  moved,  "  No  pale  lies. 
You're  mine,  and  if  Gillespie  dares 
To  take  what  has  been  in  your  eyes 
For  him  today  —  he's  less  than  wise." 

Which  said,  back  to  his  drunkenness, 
Till,  soberly,  on  the  third  night, 
He  sought  her  room :     There  was  no  flight ; 
Her  flesh  shone  thro  a  thin  night-dress. 
"  I  ask  no  pardon,"  said  he,  "  none. 
I  drink,  for  drink  is  in  my  blood. 
The  heat  of  those  dead  men  upon 
The  Hill  behind  us  rules  my  mood : 
They  rise  in  me  and  want's  at  flood. 

"  But  you  —  what  will  you  do?    Accept 
My  love  and  passion  for  the  whiles 
I  am  myself  ?    By  winning  wiles 


WRAITH  WOOD  HILL  177 

Ghosts  from  the  blood  might  oft  be  kept. 
And  this  might  be  our  bridal  hour ! 
I  want  you  —  all  your  beauty  calls 
To  me,  in  drunkenness  or  free, 
Like  trumpets  from  dream-lifted  walls, 
Like  music  that  on  yearning  falls." 

She  heard  in  terror  —  heard  and  shrank 
Back  from  him,  covering  her  breast 
With  arms  that  ruthlessly  were  pressed 
Into  its  beauty  —  which  he  drank. 
*'  Go  from  me,  go:  give  me  again 
My  freedom!  "  shuddering  she  cried. 
*'  What  in  me  once  was  love  is  now 
A  corpse  three  days  have  horrified 
With  crawling  moments.    Love  has  died." 

"  Or  never  was,  perhaps?  "  he  shrugged. 
And  then,  "  There's  time.    I'll  go  tonight. 
But  see  to  it  there  is  no  flight, 
No  fears  by  your  Gillespie  drugged. 


178  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

For  half  I  think  he  stands  between 
Us  now  —  or  drink  breeds  jealousy." 
When  he  was  gone  she  could  not  move, 
Till  terror  took  her  suddenly, 
Lest  he  return  —  and  worse  things  be. 

She  locked  the  door.    Then  in  the  moon 
Out  of  her  open  window  heard 
The  wild  hoofs  of  his  filly,  spurred 
Reckless  into  the  night's  deep  swoon. 
Asleep  at  last  she  fell,  to  dream 
That  she  was  mother  to  a  child 
Which  was  a  drunkard  at  her  breast, 
And  that  her  sotted  husband  smiled 
And  said,  "  Like  me."    She  woke  half  wild. 


Ill 

Then  came  her  friends  to  look  upon 
Her  honeymoon  and  guess  its  glow. 
They  found  instead  a  haunted  woe, 
And  silence  over  pale  lips  drawn. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  179 

Rumor  that  panders  to  all  ills 
Was  whispering  soon  —  and  Quentin  heard. 
"  A  drunkard's  bride  .  .  .  stricken  with  fear," 
Was  the  invariable  word 
That  in  the  stream  of  tattle  stirred. 

So  as  forlorn,  at  a  day's  close. 
She  stood  beside  the  sullen  brook. 
Half-circling  Wraithwood  with  its  hook 
Of  rainy  waters,  Quentin  rose. 
"  Maisie,  I  had  to  come,"  he  said. 
"You  are  unhappy!     Oh,  my  God, 
Why  did  you  leave  me !    Will  you  come 
Away  with  me?  "  .  .  .  The  oozy  sod 
Under  her  feet  held  her  fear-shod. 

Yet  for  a  moment  she  reached  out 

Her  arms  to  him,  and  "  Quentin!  "  cried. 

But  as  he  leapt  swift  to  her  side, 

Terror  became  for  her  too  stout. 

And  so  she  fled,  stumbling  and  falling, 


180  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

Rising  and  stumbling  once  again. 
Aware,  she  knew  not  how,  that  Allen 
Had  heard,  and  from  that  guilty  fen, 
His  heart,  would  some  wild  deed  unpen. 

She  knew  —  and  yet,  strangling  and  weeping, 

As  the  hysteric  moment  hung, 

She  ran,  her  heart  and  knees  unstrung, 

Across  her  eyes  wet  branches  sweeping. 

She  felt  a  flower  crush  beneath 

Her  foot  into  the  sobbing  soil. 

Then  a  shot  rang,  and  Quentin's  life, 

Under  her  feet,  a  bloody  moil, 

She  seemed  to  trample  in  wild  toil. 

Fainting  she  fell  at  last  within 
Her  chamber  —  all  her  terror  still; 
It  was  as  if  Death  had  his  will, 
Or  as  if  breath  had  never  been. 
The  minutes  passed  then,  till  a  step, 
That  fell  in  stealth  upon  the  stair 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  181 

Without,  went  thro  her  frigid  frame, 
A  vibrant  prescience  in  the  air 
Of  him  whose  crime  had  laid  her  there. 

She  moaned.    He  entered  —  blood  upon 
His  hand  and  cheek  that  bore  no  wound; 
And  horror's  desperation  runed 
His  haggard  look,  drunken  and  drawn. 
"  Get  up,"  he  cursed  her,  '*  there's  no  time. 
Damn  you,  I  must  be  gone  from  here. 
And  you  must  stay  "  —  her  eyes  unclosed  — 
"  Stay  and  do  all  you  can  to  clear  ..." 
She  saw  the  blood  and  screamed  with  fear. 

"  What  have  you  done!  what  have  you  done!  " 

He  wiped  a  finger  of  its  blood; 

Then  a  cold  mockery  seemed  to  flood 

His  drunken  sense,  and  thro  it  run. 

"  Oh,  you  have  killed  him!  "     At  the  words 

He  straightened.    In  the  pines  without 

A  dark  wind  went.    It  seemed  like  death 


182  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

To  Maisie,  like  the  moaning  shout 
Of  Quentin's  soul,  gone  out,  gone  out ! 

She  tried  to  move  —  toward  the  door. 
Was  Quentin  killed?  oh,  was  he?  oh! 
Her  soul  was  swimming  in  blind  woe, 
A  sea  beneath  her  was  the  floor. 
Then  thro  her  suddenly  the  stare 
Of  Allen  went,  searching  her  eyes. 
A  dark  hate  and  a  drunken  light 
Of  new  suspicion  seemed  to  rise 
Thro  him,  and  cunning  —  coldly  wise. 

It  broke,  "  You'll  go  with  me,  not  stay. 
And  treacherously  tell!     Get  ready!  " 
Rage  made  his  tongue  a  moment  steady. 
Maisie  was  like  a  reed  asway. 
And  yet  she  knew  that  she  must  go 
There  to  the  brook  and  see !    Her  hair 
Fell  as  she  fled  him,  ere  he  knew, 
And  found  her  foot  upon  the  stair, 
His  following  with  fuddled  care. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  183 

He  overtook  her  at  the  gate. 
"  Run?  you  would  run  away  and  tell? 
I'll  put  you  where  you  will  be  well 
Away  from  words  —  and  power  to  prate." 
By  her  hair-tangled  wrist  he  drew 
Her  then:  the  pines  were  moaning,  moaning, 
And  the  new  moon  hung  in  the  West, 
Like  a  cold  blade  some  hand  was  honing 
Against  the  clouds,  for  an  atoning. 

He  forced  her  feet  up  the  dark  path 
Toward  the  Hill's  summit  —  and  the  tombs. 
Horror  was  in  its  rocky  glooms; 
She  wept,  she  pled  against  his  wrath. 
The  night  things  all  seemed  listening 
Around  her,  hostile,  frightened,  wild. 
A  startled  owl  swept  past,  and  with 
A  hoot  their  stumbling  way  reviled : 
Thro  Allen's  teeth  one  curse  more  filed. 

At  last  they  reached  it  —  that  death-place, 
Where  the  wind  wilder  went  —  and  where 


184  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

The  shadows  on  the  nine  stones  there 
Danced  like  dark  ghosts,  then  sank  apace. 
Maisie  cried  out,  trembling  and  shaking, 
For  now  she  knew.    In  that  void  tomb 
He  meant  to  put  her,  in  that  one 
Digged  for  his  final  resting-room.  .  .  . 
Her  swooning  did  not  stay  the  doom. 

IV 

Such  nights  have  been  —  and  that  night  was. 
The  hand  that  whetted  the  sharp  moon 
For  sacrifice  had  drawn  it  soon 
Down  thro  the  stars :  then  came  a  pause. 
An  hour :  yet  Maisie  had  not  moved. 
Then  a  chill  pierced  her  heart  and  fluttered 
Her  pulseless  lids;  a  troubled  sigh 
Thro  her  insensate  lips  was  uttered, 
Such  as  the  pines  above  her  muttered. 

Then  her  eyes  opened.    Where  was  she? 
Only  the  darkness  and  dank  stone; 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  185 

And  somewhere  still  that  low  pine-moan, 
Familiar,  yet  .  .  .  where  could  she  be  ? 
A  drop  fell  on  her  from  the  slab 
Over  her  head  —  then  memory 
Let  in,  on  her  oblivion, 
A  drop  which  set  those  terrors  free 
That  swept  her  to  insentiency. 

Those  terrors  of  the  nine  death-stones, 

Where  now  she  knew  she  was  shut  in, 

By  Allen's  wild  and  drunken  sin. 

Under  the  earth  beside  dead  bones. 

She  sought  to  rise  and  struck  her  brow 

Against  the  slab  that  covered  her. 

The  pain  and  horror  as  she  fell 

Took  from  her  limbs  the  strength  to  stir  — 

And  left  wraiths  where  no  true  wraiths  were. 

For  thro  the  tombs  around  her  those 
Forebears  of  Allen  seemed  to  ooze, 
And  their  pale  shape  to  interfuse 


186  WRAITHWOOD  HILL 

With  all  her  body's  haunted  throes. 
Their  deathly  inebriety 
So  wrought  upon  her  that  a  shriek 
Broke  from  her  lips,  despite  all  terror, 
And  then  another,  till  fear- weak, 
Life  once  more  from  her  seemed  to  leak. 

But  death,  the  swiftest  of  all  things, 

Can  be  so  lingeringly  slow 

That  time  seems  cruelty  a-flow 

Out  of  eternity's  dry  springs. 

And  so  for  Maisie  to  and  fro 

Came  trance  and  terror  —  came  and  went, 

Till  the  last  beat  within  her  veins 

Was  frozen,  its  cold  anguish  spent, 

And  in  sure  Silence  she  was  pent. 

They  found  her  —  after  Quentin's  death 
Had  set  the  quest  a-cry.    Her  hair 
Was  dewed  with  the  damp  dripping  there, 
Her  sweet  lips  absent  of  all  breath. 


WRAITHWOOD  HILL  187 

Under  the  pines  they  bore  her  down, 
Tenderly,  by  each  rocky  place 
Whence  wild  flowers  leaned  with  swaying  sigh 
To  look  into  her  passing  face 
And  say  above  her  a  still  grace. 

And  now  Wraithwood  is  tenantless, 
Save  for  the  fox  —  and,  it  is  said. 
For  stealthier  footsteps  of  the  dead 
That  sometimes  sadly  round  it  press. 
For  Murder  is  a  landlord  none 
Will  lease  from  save  the  neediest. 
So  the  town  clock  a  verdict  still 
Strikes  thro  each  unforgetting  breast 
Of  that  dark  night's  forlorn  inquest. 


THE   END 


Earth  and  New  Earth 

By  CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

America  has  to-day  no  poet  who  so  truly  answers 
the  multiplex  tests  of  poetry  as  does  Cale  Young 
Rice.  ...  He  is  a  robust  genius,  a  voluminous 
producer.  Given  quality,  sustained  and  wide  rang- 
ing composition  is  a  fair  test  of  poetic  power. — 
The  New  York  Sun. 

This  latest  collection  shows  no  diminution  in  Mr. 
Rice's  versatility  or  power  of  expression.  Its 
poems  are  serious,  keen,  distinctively  free  and 
vitally  spiritual  in  thought. — The  Continent  (Chi- 
cago). 

Mr.  Rice  is  concerned  with  thoughts  that  are  more 
than  timely;  they  represent  a  large  vision  of  the 
world  events  now  transpiring  .  .  .  and  his  affirma- 
tion of  the  spiritual  in  such  an  hour  estabhshes 
him  in  the  immemorial  office  of  the  poet-prophet. 
.  .  .  The  volume  is  a  worthy  addition  to  the  large 
amount  of  his  work. — Anna  L.  Hopper  in  The 
Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  the  greatest  living  American 
poet.— D.  F.  Hannigan,  Lit.  Ed.  The  Rochester 
Post  Express. 

The  work  of  Cale  Young  Rice  emerges  clearly  as 
the  most  distinguished  offering  of  this  country  to 
the  combined  arts  of  poetry  and  the  drama. 
"Earth  and  New  Earth"  strikes  a  ringing  new 
note  of  the  earth  which  shall  be  after  the  war.— 
The  Memphis  Commercial-Appeal. 

22mo.,  IS 8  pages,  $1.25  net 
At  all  bookstores  Published  by 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
353  Fourth  Ave.  New  York  City 


The  Collected 
and  Poems 


Plays 


OF 


CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

The  great  quality  of  Cale  Young  Rice's  work  is 
that,  amid  all  the  distractions  and  changes  of  con- 
temporary taste,  it  remains  true  to  the  central 
drift  of  great  poetry.  His  interests  are  very  wide 
.  .  .  and  his  books  open  up  a  most  varied  world 
of  emotion  and  romance. — Gilbert  Murray. 

These  volumes  are  an  anthology  wrought  by  a 
master  hand  and  endowed  with  perennial  vitality. 

.  .  .  This  writer  is  the  most  distinguished  master 
of  lyric  utterance  in  the  new  world  .  .  .  and  he 
has  contributed  much  to  the  scanty  stock  of  Amer- 
ican literary  fame.  Fashions  in  poetry  come  and 
go,  and  minor  lights  twinkle  fitfully  as  they  pass 
in  tumultuous  review.  But  these  volumes  are  of 
the  things  that  are  eternal  in  poetic  expression. 

.  .  .  They  embody  the  hopes  and  impulses  of  uni- 
versal humanity. — The  Philadelphia  North  Amer- 
ican. 

Mr.  Rice  has  been  hailed  by  too  many  critics  as 
the  poet  of  his  country,  if  not  of  his  generation, 
not  to  create  a  demand  for  a  full  edition  of  his 
works. — The  Hartford  (Conn.)  Courant. 

This  gathering  of  his  forces  stamps  Mr.  Rice  as 
one  of  the  world's  true  poets,  remarkable  alike 
for  strength,  versatility  and  beauty  of  expression. 
— The  Chicago  Herald  (Ethel  M.  Colson). 


Any  one  familiar  with  "Cloister  Lays,"  "The 
Mystic,"  etc.,  does  not  need  to  be  told  that  they 
rank  with  the  very  best  poetry.  And  Mr.  Rice's 
dramas  are  not  equaled  by  any  other  American 
author's.  .  .  .  The  admirable  characteristic  of  his 
work  is  the  understanding  of  life.  .  .  .  And  when 
those  who  are  loyal  to  poetic  traditions  cherished 
through  the  whole  history  of  our  language  con- 
template the  anemia  and  artificiality  of  contem- 
poraries, they  can  but  assert  that  Mr.  Rice  has 
the  grasp  and  sweep,  the  rhythm,  imagery  and 
pulsating  sympathy,  which  in  wondering  admira- 
tion are  ascribed  to  genius. — The  Los  Angeles 
Times. 

Mr.  Rice's  poetic  dramas  have  won  him  highest 
praise.  But  the  universality  of  his  genius  is  no- 
where more  apparent  than  in  his  lyrics.  .  .  .  For 
sheer  grace  and  loveliness  some  of  these  lyrics  are 
unsurpassed  in  modern  poetry. — The  N.  E.  Home- 
stead  (Springfield,  Mass.). 

It  is  with  no  undue  repetition  that  we  speak  of 
the  very  great  range  and  very  great  variety  of 
Mr.  Rice's  subject,  inspiration,  and  mode  of  ex- 
pression. .  .  .  The  passage  of  his  spirit  is  truly 
from  deep  to  deep. — Margaret  S.  Anderson  (The 
Louisville  Evening  Post), 

In  Mr.  Rice  we  have  a  voice  such  as  America  has 
rarely  known  before. — The  Rochester  (N.  Y.) 
Fast  Express. 

It  is  good  to  find  such  sincere  and  beautiful  work 
as  is  in  these  two  volumes.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  writer 
with  no  wish  to  purchase  fame  at  the  price  of 
eccentricity  of  either  form  or  subject. — The  Inde- 
pendent. 


Mr.  Rice's  style  is  that  of  the  masters.  ...  He 
will  live  with  our  great  poets. — Louisville  Herald 
(J.  J.  Cole). 

Mr.  Rice  is  an  American  by  birth,  but  he  is  not 
merely  an  American  poet.  Over  existence  and  the 
whole  world  his  vision  extends.  He  is  a  poet  of 
human  life  and  his  range  is  uncircumscribed. — 
The  Baltimore  Evening  News. 

Viewing  Mr.  Rice's  plays  as  a  whole,  I  should  say 
that  his  prime  virtue  is  fecundity  or  affluence,  the 
power  to  conceive  and  combine  events  resource- 
fully, and  an  abundance  of  pointed  phrases  which 
recalls  and  half  restores  the  great  Elisabethans. 
His  aptitude  for  structure  is  great. — The  Nation 
(O.  W.  Firkins). 

Mr.  Rice  has  fairly  won  his  singing  robes  and  has 
a  right  to  be  ranked  with  the  first  of  living  poets. 
One  must  read  the  volumes  to  get  an  idea  of 
their  cosmopolitan  breadth  and  fresh  abiding 
charm.  .  .  .  The  dramas,  taken  as  a  whole,  rep- 
resent the  most  important  work  of  the  kind  that 
has  been  done  by  any  living  writer;  .  .  .  This 
work  belongs  to  that  great  world  where  the 
mightiest  spiritual  and  intellectual  forces  are  for- 
ever contending;  to  that  deeper  life  which  calls 
for  the  rarest  gifts  of  poetic  expression. — The 
Book  News  Monthly  (Albert  S.  Henry). 

2  Vol.  $3.00  net 

At  all  bookstores  Published  by 

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T^HE  following  volumes  are  now 
included  in  the  author's  "Collected 
Plays  and  Poems,"  and  are  not  ob- 
tainable elsewhere : 


At  the  World's  Heart 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  highly  esteemed  by  readers 
wherever  English  is  the  native  speech. — The  Man- 
chester {England)  Guardian. 

Porziat  A  Play 

It  matters  little  that  we  hesitate  between  ranking 
Mr.  Rice  highest  as  dramatist  or  lyrist ;  what  mat- 
ters is  that  he  has  the  faculty  divine  beyond  any 
living  poet  of  America ;  his  inspiration  is  true, 
and  his  poetry  is  the  real  thing. — The  London 
Bookman. 

Far  Quests 

It  shows  a  wide  range  of  thought,  and  sympathy, 
and  real  skill  in  workmanship,  while  occasionally 
it  rises  to  heights  of  simplicity  and  truth,  that 
suggest  such  inspiration  as  should  mean  lasting 
fame. — The  Daily  Telegraph   (London). 

The  Immortal  Lure;    Four  Plays 

It  is  great  art — with  great  vitality. — James  Lane 
Allen. 

Different  from  Paola  and  Francesca,  but  excelling 
it — or  any  of  Stephen  Phillips's  work — in  a  vivid 
presentment  of  a  supreme  moment  in  the  lives  of 
the  characters. — The  New  York  Times. 


Many  Gods 

These  poems  are  flashingly,  glowingly  full  of  the 
East  .  .  .  What  I  am  sure  of  in  Mr.  Rice  is  that 
here  we  have  an  American  poet  whom  we  may 
claim  as  ours. — William  Dean  Howells,  in  The 
North  American  Review. 

Nirvana  Days 

Mr.  Rice  has  the  technical  cunning  that  makes  up 
almost  the  entire  equipment  of  many  poets  now- 
adays, but  human  nature  is  more  to  him  always 
.  .  .  and  he  has  the  feeling  and  imaginative  sym- 
pathy without  which  all  poetry  is  but  an  empty 
and  vain  thing. — The  London  Bookman. 

A  Night  in  Avignon;    A  Play 

It  is  as  vivid  as  a  page  from  Browning,  Mr.  Rice 
has  the  dramatic  pulse. — James  Huneker. 

Yolanda  of  Cyprus;  A  Play 

It  has  real  life  and  drama,  not  merely  beautiful 
words,  and  so  differs  from  the  great  mass  of 
poetic  plays. — Prof.  Gilbert  Murray. 

David;  A  Play 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  were  Mr.  Rice  an  English- 
man or  a  Frenchman,  his  reputation  as  his  coun- 
try's most  distinguished  poetic  dramatist  would 
have  been  assured  by  a  more  universal  sign  of 
recognition. — The  Baltimore  News. 
Charles  Di  Tocca;  A  Play 
It  is  the  most  powerful,  vital,  and  truly  tragical 
drama  written  by  an  American  for  some  years. 
There  is  genuine  pathos,  mighty  yet  never  repel- 
lant  passion,  great  sincerity  and  penetration,  and 
great  elevation  and  beauty  of  language. — The 
Chicago  Post. 

Song-Surf 

Mr.  Rice's  work  betrays  wide  sympathies  with 
nature  and  life,  and  a  welcome  originality  of  sen- 
timent and  metrical  harmony. — Sydney  Lee. 


Trails  Sunward 

By 
CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Cale  Young  Rice  has  written  some  of  the  finest 
poetry  of  the  last  decade,  and  is  the  author  of 
the  very  best  poetic  dramas  ever  written  by  an 
American.  ...  He  is  one  of  the  few  supreme 
lyrists  .  .  .  and  one  of  the  few  remaining  lovers 
of  beauty  .  .  .  who  write  it.  One  of  the  very  few 
writers  of  vers  libre  who  know  just  what  they  are 
doing. — The  Los  Angeles  Times. 

Another  book  by  Cale  Young  Rice  .  .  .  one  of 
the  few  poetic  geniuses  this  country  has  produced. 
...  In  its  sixty  or  more  poems  may  be  found  the 
hall  mark  of  individuality  that  denotes  preemi- 
nence and  signalizes  independence. — The  Phila- 
delphia North  American. 

Mr.  Rice  attempts  and  succeeds  in  deepening  the 
note  of  his  singing  .  .  .  keeping  its  brilliant  tech- 
nique, its  intricate  verse  formation,  but  seeking 
all  the  while  for  words  to  interpret  the  profound 
things  of  life.  The  music  of  his  lines  is  more  per- 
fect than  ever,  his  rhythms  fresh  and  varied. — 
LitteU's  Living  Age. 

Cale  Young  Rice's  work  is  always  simple  and  sin- 
cere .  .  .  but  that  does  not  prevent  him  from 
voicing  his  song  with  passion  and  virility.  Nearly 
all  his  poems  have  elevation  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing, with  beauty  of  imagery  and  music. — The  New 
York  Times. 

Readers  familiar  with  Cale  Young  Rice's  previous 
work  realize  that  he  ranks  with  the  very  best 
modern    poets. — The    New    Orleans    Times-Pica- 


Whether  the  forms  of  this  book  are  lyrical,  nar- 
rative, or  dramatic,  there  is  an  excellence  of  work- 
manship that  denotes  the  master  hand.  .  .  .  And 
while  the  range  of  ideas  is  broad,  the  treatment  of 
each  is  distinguished  by  a  strength  and  beauty  re- 
markably fine. — The  Continent  (Chicago). 

Mr.  Rice  proves  the  fine  argument  of  his  preface 
.  .  .  for  this  book  has  in  it  form  and  beauty  and 
a  full  reflection  of  the  externals  as  well  as  the 
soul  of  the  America  he  loves. — The  Philadelphia 
Public  Ledger. 

The  work  of  this  poet  always  demands  and  re- 
ceives unstinted  admiration.  .  .  .  His  is  not  the 
poetic  fashion  of  the  moment,  but  of  all  poetic 
time. — The  Chicago  Herald. 

In  "Trails  Sunward,"  Mr.  Rice  demonstrates  as 
heretofore  the  possibility  of  attaining  poetic 
growth  and  originality,  even  in  the  Twentieth 
Century,  without  extremism.  .  .  .  Sanity  linked 
with  vitality  and  breadth  in  art  make  for  per- 
manence, and  one  can  but  feel  that  Mr.  Rice  builds 
for  more  than  a  day. — The  Louisville  Courier 
Journal. 

I  rarely  use  the  term  "sublimity,"  yet  in  touches 
of  "The  Foreseers,"  particularly  in  its  cavern-set 
opening,  I  should  say  that  Mr.  Rice  had  scaled  that 
eminence. — O.  W.  Firkins  (The  Nation). 


12mo,  150  pages 
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expiration  of  loan  period. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


